


Trinity Book I: Embers

by Sue Kelley (sknkodiak)



Series: Trinity [1]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 60,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sknkodiak/pseuds/Sue%20Kelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning of the Trinity trilogy. Revenge is a dish served very, very cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> Anybody who has read this before and is thinking "Why is she wasting more bandwidth on a series she never finished?"...well, I'm finishing it. 
> 
> This monster has had more beta readers and helpful commenters than I can, to be honest, remember...it was originally posted in 2000. I know Wendy was and is still involved with it. LT and Lori Swanson also helped out. Dawn Cunningham pitched in when needed. I made so many new friends through this story and I apologize to all of you for not mentioning you by name.
> 
> Oh, there are sections in this story that take place in airports. Please remember the story was completed before 9/11/01. It's hard to remember now, but back then people actually could walk down to the gate to meet someone or see someone off. And it didn't take 2 hours to go through security check. The world before 9/11 was a more innocent place.
> 
> Mog created the ATF AU and opened it up to everyone. Thank you again, Mog! I don't own the Magnificent Seven and at this point, who knows who does. Except CBS I guess. In Part 4, there is a mention of the two spurs Buck gifted to Vin and Ezra. That came from a wonderful, early ATF story that I have lost track of through the years and computers. Many thanks to that writer.

The mansion had been built in the late 1800s by a transplanted New Englander desperate to spend the fortune acquired in the silver mines of Colorado. The fortune hadn’t outlived the New Englander’s proliferate heirs, and the house had been sold, to first one party, then another, until it had finally come into the possession of its current owner shortly after World War II.

The house bespoke culture, elegance, tradition. And money of course, but not in a garish way. The Persian rugs, the oriental lamps, the highly polished dark wood floors, the wall of mahogany bookcases and the spare grouping of a gold brocade sofa and two complimentary armchairs in front of the fireplace--were all from another era--a time of peace and leisure and contemplation. Sitting in this gracious room with the two or three well chosen paintings and the plethora of family photographs in ornate silver or china frames, one felt a part of a more restful time, a more gracious time--a time and a place that should not be able to exist when the skyscrapers of downtown Denver were visible from the windows.

Arthur Curran owned this house. He now sat quietly behind the massive cherry desk, his eyes on the three other people in the room. Family was important to Curran and since the recent loss of his only son, these three represented all the family he had left.

He looked at them--no, studied them, maybe for the first time. What did he really know about any of them, how they thought, what they felt? He’d supported them most of their lives, educated them, set them up in whatever business their interests had taken them. All three, in some fashion, worked for one of his businesses--either legal or illegal. All three of them probably had more than a rudimentary knowledge of some of his less than legitimate sources of income. And all knew what their cousin had been doing at the time of his death.

His murder.

A legal murder, perhaps, but murder nonetheless. 

His eyes settled on his nephew. David tolerated the scrutiny without a flicker of emotion crossing his perfect features. Curran knew he had been short with the boy--man--since Steven’s death. David couldn’t help it that not only was he not Steven, he was Steven’s exact opposite--blond where Steven had been dark, reserved where Steven had been gregarious. David and Steven--their birthdates separated by a matter of mere weeks--had been best friends as well as cousins. Tightly allied. Solidly at each other’s backs. David had become even more withdrawn since Steven’s funeral. Did he expect to just step into Steven’s shoes--Steven’s position in the business and in his father’s life?

David’s sister sat next to him on the velvet sofa. Nina was the youngest of the three. The beautiful face, silver-blonde hair and cool emerald eyes hid a cutting intelligence and wit. Curran knew Nina enjoyed letting people underestimate her, assuming she was nothing more than a “dumb blonde” with a lot of money behind her. Hardly dumb. With an MBA from Stanford and a law degree from Harvard, Nina now worked for Curran’s chief counsel, keeping the legitimate businesses legitimate and the illegal ones hidden.

Curran’s eyes drifted slowly to his other niece. Monica sat to the side, alone and somewhat distant from the other two. Her blue eyes coolly studied both them and her uncle. Monica always was separate from the others. His wife’s niece, not his, although Curran didn’t feel he’d ever treated her differently than the others. Three years older than David, Monica had grown up as the quiet one. It was practically impossible to tell how she felt about anything. Even David and Nina’s masks had slipped at their aunt’s funeral the year before. Monica’s mask never slipped. Sometimes her uncle wondered if it was a mask at all or if she really didn’t care about anything. Except her work, of course. Monica was a research chemist and biologist. The only time her uncle could remember seeing her excited about anything since she was a child was when she had been explaining some new drug she was developing to Steven. 

Three weeks before his death.

Oddly enough, Monica broke the silence in the room. “Uncle Arthur? You called us here.” It was a statement, not a question. David and Nina both shot her surprised looks, then turned their attention to him.

Curran opened the center drawer of the desk and pulled out the three checks he had written that morning. He lined them neatly up on the edge of the desk. No one made a move to take them. David’s eyes flickered down, once. That was it.

“Ten million dollars for each of you. Yours immediately, and without any strings.” His voice cracked over the snapping of the fire.

Fleeting looks of surprise crossed David’s and Nina’s faces. Monica showed no change of expression, but her eyes did drift past him to the window, looking at the rain falling for a few minutes before she shifted back to him. 

“Each of you is free to take your check, now, and walk out of here. Your jobs won’t be affected, and I won’t think any the less of you.” He paused. “However, if you do so, the ten million represents your sole inheritance from my estate. You won’t be mentioned in my will.” He eyed each of them steadily.

All three of them nodded. Faint looks of puzzlement. 

“The three of you are fairly clean,” Curran went on. “You might know a lot--Nina and David possibly more than you, Monica.” Even to himself he doubted that. Monica kept her mouth shut and her ears open. She probably knew a _hell_ of a lot. “But I’ve never asked any of you to do anything directly illegal. You take the money now, that will never change. All I ask is that you keep what you know to yourselves. You are family. I expect that of you.”

The fire crackled again. David shifted on the sofa. Nina glanced across the room at Monica. And Monica looked out the window again.

None of them made a move toward the checks.

“I gather there’s an option?” David broke the silence this time.

Curran leaned back in his chair. For the first time, he felt a smile cross his face. “Oh, yes. If any of you--or all of you--are interested...I suggest we play a little game.”

“A game?” Nina this time.

Curran opened the drawer again and pulled out the packet of photos he’d secreted there. He tossed them on the desk, watching three sets of eyes widen as they recognized the man. “This is your cousin’s killer.” 

David’s eyes flickered and a quick look of loathing crossed his face. “The bastard,” he spat. Curran nodded, surprised. For David, that was quite an emotional reaction.

“What kind of ‘game’ are we talking about, Uncle?” Monica again.

Curran eyed each one of them, satisfied they were with him in this. He pulled out the last item from the drawer--a thick sheaf of papers. Nina seemed to realize what it was. He couldn’t tell about the other two.

“This is my new will,” Curran said. “It’s made out for all three of you to equally split everything. And I’ll register this Will...” he tapped the face in one of the photographs. “The day one of you kills this man.”

End Prologue

 

**Part 1**

Five weeks later

“Got everything, kid?”

JD Dunne juggled his jacket, carry-on bag, plane ticket and three magazines hastily purchased at the airport bookstall. “Yeah, I think...” JD really wasn’t sure. He’d packed so fast this afternoon when the word had come down from AD Travis’ office that they had the week off.

“They” being Team Seven of the Denver office of the ATF. Team Seven had wrapped up their latest assignment--the third straight without a break--two days before. The morning had been devoted to writing reports and doing all the details that went along with a successful operation. JD--the team computer whiz --had had to account for all the equipment. There had been injuries and one fatality among the gun-runners they’d been targeting. Vin Tanner and Buck Wilmington had to go the extra round of reports and interviews that accompanied killing someone in the line of duty. One good thing was that the dead perp had drawn his gun and taken aim at Team Seven’s undercover specialist in front of at least nine ATF agents and three members of the Denver PD. Twelve rock-solid statements tended to blunt any force there might have been to the investigations.

Then, around noon, the phone rang in Chris Larabee’s office. After one of his customarily short conversations full of monosyllabic replies, Chris had called everyone in and announced they were all on vacation, beginning as soon as the last report was on his desk. Never had the seven diverse personalities that made up Team Seven so eagerly worked toward a common goal.

There had been a real feeling of “Get out of town before someone changes their minds.” JD decided to go to Florida where Casey was spending her spring break. Or actually, Buck and Chris--aided and abetted by Vin and Josiah--decided for him. Airlines were called, tickets purchased, Casey notified and thrilled about JD’s sudden visit--all before JD had managed to wrap his mind around the whole concept of “time off”. A quick stop at the loft he shared with Buck had resulted in any item even reasonably perceived to be clean to be packed. Buck himself had braved the muddy icy streets of a Denver spring storm to purchase his roommate “appropriate” swimming attire--JD was scared to even contemplate what that might be but anyway he wouldn’t know until the plane landed.

“You got sunscreen?” Buck asked, slowing by a druggist’s stall. “Sunglasses? Oh, I know, aspirin, that sun glare--“ 

Buck made to dart into the place but JD tripped him. “I have sunglasses,” he hissed, noticing an ever-increasing number of women circumventing them with maternal looks on their faces. “And if I need sunscreen I’m sure they sell it in Florida!”

“Hey JD, wait up!” Nathan Jackson loped down the concourse. The former EMT had a well-filled pack over one shoulder and his heavy coat over another. 

But it was the shirt he wore underneath that made both the others take a second look. And a third, in Buck’s case. “Nathan, ain’t that my shirt?”

“Nathan what are you doing here?” chimed in JD.

“Well, you see, Rain’s never been to Florida and so when her roommate couldn’t go--and we thought we’d still be tied up with the case--Rain went ahead and bought her ticket. I called her and she’s only about five miles from where Casey is and there’s room for me--“

“And here I thought I heard you assuring Chris you were going to devote the whole seven days to advancing your paramedic studies,” Buck’s big grin took any sting away from the words. “You on the same flight? That’s great, kid! With Nathan along you can just relax--“

“I am relaxed!” JD retorted. “Maybe you should think about relaxing, Buck. I wasn’t the one undercover for the last eleven weeks--you and Ez were! Maybe you should go to Florida!”

Buck’s eyes almost glazed over. “All those little college gals and just one of the Old Buck? Kid, that’d be a marathon, not a vacation--" he broke off as the flight attendant made her “final call” for the flight to Miami and Daytona via Houston. “Oops, that’s you guys. Got your cell phones, just in case, right?” although with his Midwestern accent it sounded more like “Git yer cell phones jus’ ncase.”

“But Buck, what’re you doing to do with a week off?” JD protested as his friend physically urged them to get into the boarding line.

“Don’t worry, JD, Chris and Vin and Buck got a date with those fish up there at the cabin, right, Buck?” Nathan was in a great mood, not as much about Florida but about seeing Rain in a skimpy bathing suit. Besides, the team’s unofficial medic knew better than any of them how strung out they were. “Josiah’s already left for Mexico--goin’ to be rebuilding a church building. And Ezra--well, you know him. He’ll head to some exotic resort where they’ll wait on him hand and foot and offer him drinks with little umbrellas in them.” Nathan’s grin dimmed for a minute. _‘Damn, that’s what he’d better do. Eleven weeks undercover with no let up...before that another four weeks on the Munoz case and two months trying to take down Steven Curran...Ezra needs this break more than any of us do.’_

JD had already stepped to the bulkhead door and was presenting his ticket. Buck stepped away but Nathan reached out a hand and caught him. _‘Shit, he looks exhausted too...’_ “Buck, do me a favor--make sure Ezra gets on his way before you head up to Wyoming?”

“Why? Something wrong?”

“No. Just...he’s really tired. Maybe close to burn out. I asked him but of course he didn’t tell me anything...”

“Ezra isn’t going to burn out,” Buck scoffed. “He loves what he does. Hell, he lives for going undercover.”

There were a lot of things Nathan could have said to refute that statement, but the flight attendant was holding out her hand for his ticket and her plastic smile was rapidly disappearing. Nathan handed her the boarding pass and watched her feed it into the machine. “Buck--“ he started again.

The tall agent stepped back. “Have a good vacation Nathan, and don’t worry about Ez. Hell, don’t worry about anything.”

~+~+~+~

Ezra Standish blinked and looked around his office. He’d lost count of how long he’d been sitting in a daze at his desk--last thing he remembered was staring at the blinking cursor trying to formulate the last line of his report. Now his screen was full of whirling spaceships blinking amongst glittering stars. _‘Mr. Dunne apparently changed my screen saver again.’_

He touched the mouse to bring his report back on the screen, typed some words in, almost at random, and then hit the ‘save’ button, followed by the button that would send the report to the printer. Only after he heard the laser jet start did it slowly dawn on his exhausted mind that he had neither spell-checked the report or even read back over it.

He was so tired even his hair hurt.

He leaned back in his chair and dropped his head into his hands, stretching kinked muscles in his neck and enjoying the unaccustomed quiet in the office. JD, Nathan and Josiah were already gone; Vin and Chris were in the latter’s office--he could hear the soft murmur of their voices. Buck? Ezra frowned. He vaguely remembered Buck saying something as he walked past the door--about going to the airport. But wasn’t Mr. Wilmington going with Tanner and Larabee? And he distinctly remembered they were driving to Wyoming or Montana or wherever this cabin was. Then Ezra felt foolish. ‘ _Ah, of course. He accompanied young Mr. Dunne to the airport. Good thing. That boy could find trouble in a feather bed.’_

_‘A feather bed? Where did that come from?’_

Ezra grinned. _‘Feather bed. That does sound delightful...’_

He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the little pile of travel brochures he kept there. He still hadn’t decided where to spend his unexpected down-time--as a matter of fact he had been too fatigued to even give it a thought. He’d gone to bed almost upon his arrival home the night before--skipping dinner except for a cup of hot herbal tea--and slept heavily. Upon opening his eyes even later than usual, he’d stared blankly around his bedroom for at least five minutes trying to recollect his identity and location. _‘The life of an undercover agent--not only do I not know where I am, I’m not sure who I am.’_

Skipping breakfast except for his usual latte from Starbucks, he’d spent the whole day fighting with this report. The fact that usually his reports flowed smoothly was just one more irritant. Now he was tired, cross, tired, hungry, frustrated--and tired.

Mostly tired.

He flipped through the brightly-colored folders as if they were one of his beloved decks of cards. _‘London? Too wet. Paris? Too close to Mother. New York? Too crowded. Bali? No. New Orleans? No...’_

The thought suddenly struck him. He really didn’t want to go anywhere. Well, anywhere but home to his condo and his own bed. Even if it wasn’t made of feathers.

“--Ezra!”

Chris Larabee stood in the doorway staring at his best undercover agent in concern. The mere fact that he could stand in the doorway and not be noticed was cause for concern. One did not sneak up on Ezra Standish. Hell, one shouldn’t be able to sneak up on any of his men, but especially not Ezra. Not even in the supposed safety of the Federal Building. And especially when he had not even tried to sneak up on him, but had walked quite openly into the office to find the man staring down at his desk, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. An undercover agent who was oblivious to his surroundings wasn’t an undercover agent for long--he wouldn’t even be alive for long.

That was bad enough. What was even worse was that when he said the man’s name, Ezra still didn’t respond to him. It wasn’t until the third repetition--uttered loudly as he crossed the floor--that Ezra blinked and looked at him. “Mr. Larabee?” he questioned, looking mildly surprised to see his irate superior in front of him. “Is there some problem?”

“I think I should be asking you that?”

Ezra’s green eyes widened. “I’m fine. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Maybe because I’ve been standing here for five minutes trying to get your attention!” Chris’ voice rose on every word until he was yelling.

Ezra stared at him then his green eyes took on a familiar devilish twinkle. “Now, Mr. Larabee...you never have a problem drawing attention,” he purred, his drawl deepening.

Chris wanted to strangle him--unfortunately, not an unfamiliar phenomenon. Half the time he wanted to murder Standish. The rest of his waking hours he worried that someone else was trying to kill him. Sometimes--such as when Ezra did something even more radical and reckless than his normal behavior--Chris felt both at the same time. That frequently led to a headache. And it wasn’t just Standish. Sometimes Chris Larabee felt more like a kindergarten teacher than the head of the most successful ATF team west of the Mississippi.

Familiarity breeds contempt; it also breeds certain skills. Chris knew Ezra was trying to redirect his attention by baiting him into one of their verbal battles. Although Chris usually enjoyed them as much as Ezra apparently did, he wasn’t going to let the other man get away with it this time.

Without being invited--he was the boss of this outfit, after all--he lowered himself into the chair in front of Ezra’s desk and fixed his agent with the infamous Larabee Death Glare. The Glare--and the accompanying brooding silence--never worked quite as well with Ezra as it did with, say, JD, but it was still one of the most powerful weapons in Chris’ personal Arsenal for Dealing With Smart Ass Agents. And it worked this time. The silence lasted fully two minutes before Ezra blinked and broke the gaze. “Shouldn’t you and your two companions be departing for your homes to prepare for your vacation destination?” he offered.

Victorious, Chris grinned ferally and then decided to let Standish off the hook. “Just waiting on your report,” he pointed out.

Standish actually looked flustered. For all of one second. 

“I just printed it out,” he responded, gathering his cool persona around him like a cloak as he stood. Chris waved him back down.

“Where are you going?” Chris asked.

“To get the report.”

Chris sighed. _‘Damn, I walked into that one.’_ “Ezra,” he said, with far more patience than he actually felt, “I meant, where are you going on vacation?”

“Oh. I have decided to use my unexpected leisure time to acquaint myself with my current city of residence.”

Chris ran that through his translator of “Ezra speak” and frowned. “You mean you’re staying in Denver? Why?”

Ezra shrugged. “Why not?” he asked helpfully.

“Ezra,” Chris growled. This time he used his _“don’t-bother-bullshitting-me-because-I-want-the-truth-now!”_ voice.

Ezra heard the tone and surrendered. “Mr. Larabee, I am fatigued to the point where all I have any desire to do for the next week is sleep. It seems inane to spend money and time traveling somewhere to sleep in a hotel room when I have a perfectly good domicile to sleep in here.” He sighed, then added with seeming reluctance, “I believe I am coming down with a cold.”

Chris stared at him, not sure to believe him. But then, looking across the desk at the unusually pale face and tired eyes, he had to admit it made sense. Ezra looked tired, and it was quite possible he was coming down with something. Unusual for Ezra to admit it, but then, the last several months hadn’t been easy on any of them. _‘Too many assignments, too close together,’_ Chris mused. The Agency, after all, did have guidelines about duration and frequency of missions, especially when those dealt with undercover work. The ATF didn’t have that many good undercover agents that they could afford to have any flipping out or turning into gibbering idiots or, even worse, forgetting what side they were actually on. Unfortunately, the guidelines frequently got tossed out the window, at least where Team Seven was concerned. They had worked three major, critical cases over the last six months, with only a few days between, and all of them had required Ezra to play some undercover role. Chris did the best he could to protect him. Ezra had gone “inside” alone the first case, with Vin the second, and Buck had posed as his bodyguard on the third. There wasn’t much Chris’ longtime friend hated more than playing a role, but he managed quite nicely to look lethal and menacing. 

In addition to the big cases there were all the so-called small, bread and butter cases of smuggled cigarettes and bars giving short weight that were investigated as a matter of course.

All this resulted in seven tired--exhausted--men. And if Ezra wanted to stay in the relative calm of Denver instead of heading off for some glittering resort, his boss shouldn’t have a problem with it. Rest and relaxation after all was the key. But Chris still hesitated. “Why don’t you come with Vin an’ Buck an’ me?”

Under other circumstances Chris would have burst into laughter at the look on Ezra’s face. The Southerner somehow managed to look flattered, appalled and shocked all at once.

 

**Part 3**

Buck parked his battered old Chevy pickup in between Vin’s equally battered old Jeep and Ezra’s glittering Jag. As usual, the Jag was parked in the corner spot, as close to the wall as possible in an attempt to preclude dings.

He sat quietly in the driver’s seat, summoning up his energy for the trip upstairs. His mind kept frantically searching for an excuse as it had all day, with no luck. Oh, he could think of plenty of reasons not to go on this trip to Wyoming with Chris and Vin, but none that were likely to satisfy either one of the others, for various reasons.

The cabin was half his--shared with Chris--a legacy of a more lighthearted time in their lives. A time before Chris was married, before he was a father--before he’d lost both wife and son to an assassin. Before he’d turned into a bitter man, bent on destroying himself or anyone in his path. 

And Buck had been in his path. Not once, not twice but hundreds of times. Keeping Chris alive and sane when everything in Larabee prayed for death, or at least oblivion. 

Those days were over, for the most part. Chris had an interest in life again. More than one, actually. The six other men that made up his hand-picked team, and Mary Travis and her young son Billy. Not to say the demons of Chris Larabee’s soul were completely exorcised, but Buck no longer said good-bye to him at the end of an evening wondering if he’d still be alive the next morning. 

And Chris had Vin Tanner now, too. Theirs had been an instant kinship, an instant friendship. Vin could reach the part of Chris that Buck no longer could. And instead of regretting that, Buck thanked God every day for it. 

For a few minutes he was content to sit, eyes closed, letting his mind empty of thoughts. Gradually the sharp little spikes of tension circling his forehead eased their relentless throbbing.

He felt himself drifting off, remembering...

777

77

7

~~Buck sat at the picnic table, staring ahead of him at the slow-rolling creek, the grassy meadow studded with early spring wildflowers, the snow capped mountains rising above. He rubbed one hand aimlessly on the picnic basket. The hotel kitchen had selected the food and wine, but he’d provided the picnic basket, sneaking out to Chris’ tack room late the night before. Chris hadn’t used the thing since Sarah’s death. Buck seriously doubted he even remembered where it was. It had been important to Buck to use something that in some way connected to the person he really was.

Buck Wilmington, not Brian Jakes.

_‘Damn Wilmington, get out of here. Now. Before she gets here. This is a bad idea...’_

He heard a car in the distance and looked up to see her little red sports car crossing the bridge. She pulled up next to the borrowed Jag and slipped out, waving her hand enthusiastically. “Brian!” She ran up to him and he caught her in his arms.

Her mouth was warm and spicy under his, her perfume, that light fruity scent filling his nostrils, his senses. 

She pulled back, her eyes shining as she looked at him. “I’m not late, am I? I kinda got lost,” she confessed, giggling. “Can you believe that? I spent last summer hiking in the Alps and never got lost once, then I can’t find a place twenty miles from my home?” She whirled around. “Oh Brian, it’s so beautiful!”

“Only the best for my favorite lady.” He could barely recognize his own voice. He coughed. “Had to celebrate our last day in style!”

She put her arms around his neck, nestled her cheek against his chest. “I don’t want to go back to Paris,” she said softly. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Buck closed his eyes in pain. “Sarah--“

She reached up to place two fingers on his lips. “Don’t Brian, don’t say anything. I know I have to go back. I’m so close to finishing now...I just--you’ll be here when I get back in June, won’t you? Uncle Marc is so impressed with Edward, I know he’s going to keep him on when this deal is over. So you’ll stay too, right? You’ll still have a job with Edward--“

Buck had to say something. Hating himself, he answered, “Can’t see myself leavin’ Eddie--that’s a fact.”

Her eyes were burning into his, staring into his soul. He imagined she could see the truth. “Sarah--“

She cut him off again, pressing those fingers against his lips. “No, Brian, don’t say anything. Not today. Let’s just...have this day together. Let me believe it will be forever...”

Her lips closed over his again. Buck felt himself responding. ‘One more day of pretense, you bastard,’ he thought bitterly.

 

It was full night when he parked the Jag in the parking lot underneath the hotel. He left the picnic basket where it was and took the elevator directly up to the penthouse. Walking into the living room, he spotted Ezra immediately out on the balcony. The Southerner was cradling a snifter of brandy in his hand as he stared out over the lights of Denver. Buck grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the wet-bar and joined him. 

Silence stretched between the two of them. “How did it go?” Ezra asked finally.

“Don’t make any difference how it went,” Buck answered roughly. “Twelve hours and she’ll be on a plane back to Paris. Two more days and ‘Brian Jakes’ won’t exist anymore.” Uncapping the whiskey, he took a long drink straight from the bottle.

Ezra’s eyes studied him. There was sympathy there. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

“Nothin’ for you to be sorry ‘bout. You warned me about gettin’ ‘personally involved’.” He laughed bitterly. Another long swig. “Shoulda listened to you.”

“You obtained valuable information--“

“I used a beautiful, sweet, innocent girl for my own purposes, you mean.”

Ezra sighed. “I don’t believe that for one minute, Buck. You aren’t a user.”

“Hell I’m not.” Buck stared out over the city in turn, feeling the warmth of the whiskey hit his gut. “Damn, Ezra, I don’t know how you do this, time after time.”

“I don’t fall in love with the niece of the miscreant I’m attemptin’ to take down.”

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Ezra broke it. “Chris called. We’ve got enough information. We’re taking down Hoyt’s operation.”

Buck’s heart stopped. “When?” His throat was tight.

Ezra reached out for the bottle Buck held and poured a healthy amount into his empty snifter. “Tomorrow night.” His eyes met Buck’s. “She’ll be out of the country, Buck. She’ll be safe. There’s no evidence against her, no charges pending.” His voice softened. “You did the best you could for her, Mr. Wilmington.”

Buck stared at the bottle. He snatched it up suddenly and whipped around to send it flying to shatter against the flagstone. “Yeah. I’m a really great guy. Bet that’ll be some comfort to her when she finds out her only relative is goin’ to prison for life, and that the man she thinks she loves doesn’t even exist. Yeah, Ezra--I’m one damn fine guy.”

7

77

777

The quiet in the truck was shattered by a shrill ringing. Buck’s eyes snapped open; he stared unseeingly into the gloom of the parking garage before fumbling for his cell phone. “Wilmington.”

“JD’s plane was supposed to take off hours ago. Where the hell are you?”

“Hey, Chris. I’m downstairs in the garage.” Buck made a face. “Guess I kinda dozed off.”

Silence. Finally, Larabee’s voice, equal parts concern and irritation. “You fell asleep? Are you all right?” Buck heard Chris sigh over the phone. “Never mind. You’ll feel better after we get out of town.”

Buck took a deep breath, let it out, then took another. “Chris, I’m not going.”  
There. He’d said it.

Chris’ voice was icily calm. “Yes, you are. Just come upstairs and we’ll talk about it.”

Without answering, Buck clicked off the phone. 

~+~+~+~

Chris Larabee leafed through Buck’s report on the recently-concluded undercover mission, then slammed it down on his desk. “Damn it, Buck,” he growled out loud, “I know something happened while you were under that’s eatin’ at you...”

His best friend sat on the leather sofa along one wall. Vin Tanner had heard enough of Chris’ side of the phone conversation with Buck to draw his own conclusions. “Chris,” he started.

Larabee held up his hand to stop anything Vin might have said. “No. You aren’t skipping this trip either. Because you going is not the reason Buck’s not wanting to go.”

After all this time, Vin should no longer be surprised that Chris could seemingly read his mind. He hesitated. “You sure ‘bout that? Because--“

“I’m sure,” Chris interrupted. He tossed the file aside. “Somethin’s been botherin’ him about this last assignment; it doesn’t have anything to do with you.” He touched the spur on his desk, reminding Vin when Buck had given one to each of them. The last few months had reminded Chris of what he should have known all along--Buck Wilmington wasn’t a bitter man...his mind just didn’t work that way. 

Anything Vin might have said was halted as they both heard the corridor door open. “In here, Buck,” Chris called.

In a few seconds the tall man appeared in the doorway.

_‘Shit you look terrible,’_ Chris mentally chastised his friend. _‘What the devil happened to you out there? And why won’t you tell me?’_

 

**Part 4**

After an awkward silence, Vin cleared his throat. “So, cowboy, what’s this about you not comin’ with us?”

Buck forced a grin which didn’t reach his eyes. “Hell, pard...I’m doin’ you a favor. This way you’ll catch some fish! If ole’ Buck went up there...the two of you wouldn’t catch a thing ‘cept a cold.”

Vin snorted. “Right,” he drawled.

Chris studied Buck carefully. The tone was right, but the facial expression and posture were all wrong. The taller agent stood stiffly, holding his arms close to his body--not at all his usual relaxed posture. “Buck,” he started.

“Chris...just let it go. Please.” The last word was added almost in a whisper. That, more than anything else, convinced Chris something was really wrong. He caught Vin’s gaze and indicated the door. There was a small chance, not much, that Buck would talk a little more freely if it were just he and his old partner and friend in the room.

Vin hesitated, then slid to the edge of the couch. Before he could leave the room though, a new voice joined in the conversation. Ezra stood behind Buck in the doorway with a newspaper clutched in his hand. “Mr. Wilmington, I’m afraid I have gleaned some most unwelcome information from my perusal of this periodical.”

His voice startled all three of the others. Chris recovered first. “What?” he demanded, feeling his shoulders tighten even more with tension.

Ezra glanced at him, but then directed most of his attention to Buck. “You remember that delightful little eatery we patronized the night before last?”

Buck frowned. “The place with the funny name? Yeah, I remember. They didn’t cook the steak long enough. So?”

“Not everyone thinks beef should be charred until it resembles leather,” the undercover agent retorted. Then a rather chagrined look crossed his face. “However, in this instance, it does seem that your opinion was more correct than my own.” He waved the paper in the air. “Unfortunately, it appears that we were exposed to a mild form of food poisoning.”

“What?” Chris exclaimed, rising from his desk. Vin snatched the paper from Ezra’s hand and handed it to the team leader. “Downtown Restaurant Warns Customers of Food Poisoning Outbreak.”

Chris’ gimlet eyes quickly scanned the article, then looked up at his two agents. “Says here seafood was tainted,” he pointed out. The leader frowned. In the time he’d known Ezra, he’d never seen him eat cooked fish. “Buck, you let him drag you into a sushi bar?”

“Hell, no,” his old friend growled.

Ezra sighed. “It wasn’t sushi. It was bouillabaisse. We both had it for the first course.”

“Buck ordered fish soup?” Chris asked in astonishment. 

“No, Ezra ordered it for both of us. I just ate it.” Buck shrugged at the look on Chris’s face. “I was hungry,” he said defensively. “Hell, it was almost ten before we even got there!”

“Either of you feel sick?” Vin questioned.

Buck and Ezra exchanged glances. Ezra shrugged, and Buck nodded. “Kind of,” he admitted.

“We’d better take both of you to the E.R.” Chris said.

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Ezra interjected quickly. He indicated the paper still clenched in Larabee’s hand. “The newspaper typifies it as a mild illness. The symptoms don’t sound pleasant, but the indicated treatment--rest, fluids--is available in my own condominium.”

“Or my place,” Buck hastily agreed.

“Alone?” Vin broke in. He shook his head. 

“The average case isn’t serious,” Chris pointed out. “Says here it could be a lot worse. And I know both of you--you wouldn’t go to a doctor on your own until you were half-dead, and by then you might not be able to get there.”

Ezra sighed. “Mr. Larabee, it is food poisoning, not the bubonic plague.”

“With you, it might well be,” Chris fired back.

“Chris, you’re as bad as a mother hen with her chicks.” Buck shook his head. “Would you two just get goin’? Those fish are waitin’ for you.”

Ezra groaned. “Please don’t mention the word, ‘fish’ again, Mr. Wilmington.”

“I told you that soup was disgusting!”

“You consumed two servings!”

“Shut up, both of you,” Chris ordered, stopping the bickering. He hesitated. He could hardly subject either or both of them to a six-hour drive to the cabin in Wyoming--but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving them either. He slowly met Vin’s eyes and saw his own resolution confirmed there. “Vin and I’ll--“

“No!” Buck broke in fiercely. “There ain’t no reason you two should miss your vacation. You’ve been looking forward to this trip for--“

“You were looking forward to it, too,” Vin muttered softly. “At one point, at least.”

Buck shot him a glance, then met Chris’s eyes. “Look, Ezra and I live, what? Five miles from each other? We can keep an eye on each other. I’ll call him every day...a couple of times a day.”

“I will likewise telephone Mr. Wilmington...and if he doesn’t answer I can always dispatch paramedics to his abode...providing they could find him in that unqualified disaster he calls his home,” Ezra chimed in. 

Buck kicked his ankle. “You ain’t helping,” he muttered.

Chris wasn’t convinced, but he could sense he’d pushed as far as a friend could. To go any further would move from the “friend” standing into the “boss” standing, and would lead to a much longer argument. Chris didn’t have the energy for it and from the looks of him, neither did Buck. Ezra, on the other hand, would fight him tooth and nail just to be obnoxious--he was in that kind of mood. Sooner or later Chris would lose his temper with him and that would inevitably lead to Standish stalking out. _‘They’re grown men.’_ “All right,” he surrendered. “But I want a promise from both of you--if you get too sick you get your asses to a doctor ASAP.”

“Chris,” Vin started.

“You have my word, Mr. Larabee,” Ezra said quickly.

“Me, too,” Buck added, relief flitting across his face.

“By the time you return from your wilderness adventure, both Mr. Wilmington and myself will be fully recovered from any indisposition we might develop.”

“We’ll be all ready to have a fish fry with all that trout you bring back,” Buck grinned.

Ezra groaned again. “I really wish you would stop talking about fish.”

~+~+~+~

Juggling a bag of groceries, Ezra let himself into the condo. Flipping both locks behind him, he took the bag into the immaculate kitchen. He put away the soup, crackers, and ginger ale he’d purchased, then ran fresh water into the teakettle and put it on the stove. He opened the canister where he kept the special herbal tea he’d found at the specialty shop near the Federal Building. He frowned, seeing only about a dozen bags were left. ‘That’s odd...I thought I had more than that.’

The phone rang. Shrugging, Ezra dug out one teabag and left it on the counter while he went to answer. He was so sure he knew who it was that he answered “Yes, Mr. Wilmington, I arrived home safely. How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’m not puking yet.” His friend’s voice sounded tired. “I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.”

“And what fortunate--or unfortunate--lady is joining you there?” Ezra laughed.

Buck snorted. “I’m too tired to even think about a lady.” A pause. “And if you ever tell anybody I said that I’ll --“

“Shoot me?”

“No, worse...I’ll shaving cream your Jag!”

“You wouldn’t!” The laughter disappeared from Ezra’s voice. “You would desecrate a custom paint job?”

Buck chuckled. “Or worse. I might even beat you to work next week--hell, I always beat you to work--and park in that corner spot. How do you think the Jag would look after a couple days snuggled up to Josiah’s Suburban?”

Ezra shuddered. “I’m weak at the mere thought. Your secret is safe with me, Sir. So--since we both gave our word as gentlemen to Mr. Larabee about staying in contact--should we establish a check-in system to our mutual agreement?”

“Meanin’, I s’pose, that you don’t want me callin’ you before a civilized hour--eight a.m.?” The evil glee Wilmington was feeling practically crawled through the receiver.

Ezra closed his eyes. “You’re enjoyin’ this,” he accused.

“Hey, you ordered that God-awful soup in the first place!” Then Buck’s voice changed, became more sober and serious. “And I guess I owe you one at that.”

Ezra didn’t understand why Buck had so seemingly changed his mind about accompanying his friends to Wyoming. ‘Or maybe I do know,” he thought uneasily. “Buck,” he said suddenly, dropping the last name so the other man would know he was serious, “You could come stay over here. I recently purchased a bed for that small back bedroom--and there are two bathrooms.”

“I appreciate that, pard. More than you know. And if I thought you’d come near my place without calling in a cleanin’ service and a HazMat team, I’d return the invitation. But we’ve been cooped up with each other for eleven weeks now...betcha want to drink that fancy tea without me saying how much it looks like cat piss.”

Ezra smiled. “There is that. And you can blast your lamentably devoid of talent CD collection as loudly as your stereo speakers and your neighbors can tolerate it.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning at ten. And you call me if you need to, no matter what time, you hear?”

“Please reserve that anxious tigress tone in your voice for those more in need of your considerable motherin’ abilities.” In spite of his tone, a little warm feeling kindled in the loner agent’s uneasy stomach at the thought that someone cared enough to worry. Josiah Sanchez was always proclaiming Team Seven was a family, a family not of blood, but of choice and destiny. It had taken a long time for the other six members to convince Ezra that he was a part of that, and still there were times--his thoughts were interrupted by the shrill whistle of the teakettle.

Buck could hear it too. “Must be time for more cat piss?” The older agent laughed, albeit tiredly. “Each man to his own poison. You just answer that damn phone at ten a.m.!”

 

The Next Day  
Wyoming

Vin blinked his eyes and lazily rolled over. Early-morning sunshine streamed through the shuttered windows, making bars of light and shadow on the bare wood floors. Chill air bit his nose but the rest of him was warm in the sleeping bag. He could hear deep, rhythmic breathing from the bunk above him and figured Chris was still asleep. It had been well after two a.m. and raining violently when they had arrived at the cabin. Too tired to even build a fire in the fireplace, they’d unloaded the truck by flashlight and thrown sleeping bags onto the bunks before collapsing to sleep.

Not wanting to wake Chris, Vin eased out of his sleeping bag, wincing as his bare feet touched the cold floor. Grabbing his clothes, he tiptoed out of the tiny bedroom into the main room of the cabin, quietly shutting the door behind him. The hinges squeaked slightly but apparently the noise wasn’t enough to wake Chris.

He found the tiny, primitive bathroom and took care of business. There wasn’t any water yet--no one had primed the pump--so he dressed quickly and drew on his jacket before going out into the crisp morning air.

For a few moments he stood on the porch and admired the beauty around him. The cabin sat on a small rise overlooking the sparkling lake. Massive trees surrounded it, the only break in the forest the path to the lake and the twisting road they’d come in on. Vin had been here once before, after the McPherson case, but that had been such a desperate race against time--first to find Buck and then to get him to a doctor--that he hadn’t noticed much. Now he followed the path around the cabin, finding the well.

Smoke was coming from the stone chimney before he finished priming the pump. Going back inside, Vin found a crackling fire in the fireplace. Chris was in the kitchen area. He’d lit a fire in the old woodstove as well, and an old speckled coffee pot was on one burner. 

“Hey, Cowboy,” he greeted Vin. “Figure out the pump?”

Tanner shrugged. “Not too much to it.” He leaned against the wall, watching as Chris pulled a cast iron skillet out of a cupboard. His eyes wandered around the sparsely furnished but comfortable space, noticing the kerosene lamps on the mantel. He remembered Chris telling him about the cabin that last time, as they raced through the darkness hoping they’d get there in time to save Buck’s life. Chris had talked more on that trip than in the whole time Vin had known him--trying desperately to stave off the fear they’d be too late. _“We never got around to getting a generator for the place. We talk about it every time we go up there, but we never do it.”_ He’d also mentioned that no one had ever been there besides he and Wilmington. _“We were going to bring Adam up, when he was older--"_ but Chris's son hadn’t lived long enough to make the trip with his father and “uncle”.

“It’s a great place,” Vin commented now. “How’d you ever find it?” The cabin was nearly ten miles from a main road. 

Chris glanced at him, then back at the stove. “Buck found the spot...never did tell me the story how. We built the cabin ourselves.” Chris grinned. “Took a couple of years worth of vacations to get it the way we wanted it.”

Vin studied his friend. Larabee’s face was relaxed and good memories lit up his greenish eyes. “Sorry Buck wouldn’t come along,” he said quietly.

Chris’ face changed. “Told you that wasn’t your fault.”

“You sure? No one’s ever been up here but the two of you--“

“Buck invited you, remember?”

“He was out of his head at the time.”

Chris shook his head. “No, he knew what he was saying. I don’t know what’s botherin’ him, but it isn’t you coming up here. He wanted you to. And he was looking forward to the trip, too. Something happened while he was under on the Hoyt case--I don’t know what. Tore his report and Ezra’s apart trying to figure out what, but--“ he shrugged.

Vin frowned. “Ezra didn’t say anything. You think he knows what it is?”

“Imagine he does.” Chris gave a short bark of laughter. “I wouldn’t have put it past him to come up with that food-poisoning story just to get Buck off the hook--‘cept I don’t think even Ezra could orchestrate a front-page article in the newspaper that quick.”

Vin smiled in turn. “So you gonna call and check on ‘em?”

“Every day.” Chris’ face relaxed again and a devilish gleam sparked in his eyes. “Have to wake up Ezra at least a couple of mornings. That’s why the government gives us cell phones!”

 

**Part 5**

Three days later  
Denver

The harsh ringing of the phone pulled Buck from the first restful sleep he’d had in what seemed like forever. By the time he got his eyelids unglued and his fuzzy brain sent a message to his leaden arm to move, the phone answering machine had engaged. Buck groaned as he rolled over and looked at the clock. Nine a.m. He snatched the phone anyway, but whoever it was had already disconnected.

Buck flopped back over onto his side. His stomach muscles ached from the last three days of sickness and fatigue pulled at his body. His eyes drifted closed. He wasn’t asleep, but close to it.

What the paper had tritely described as “a mild form of food poisoning” was a vicious little bug that started with nausea, chills, and vomiting, and went downhill from there. At one point Buck had felt so rotten he’d even called the local minor emergency center to see if he should see a doctor or maybe just shoot himself--only to be assured his illness was behaving exactly as expected and he should “turn the corner” at any time.

And apparently he had. Buck now figured he was going to live, and he was even happy about it. The evening before he’d managed to keep down a can of Seven-Up and a handful of crackers so stale they must have been older than JD.

Then, when the unfamiliar but welcome pangs of hunger had stirred at midnight, he’d boiled an egg and made a slice of toast. The bread was molded but he cut that part off and it actually tasted good. Then he’d fallen into bed and immediately slipped into deep sleep.

Sleep beckoned seductively again. He wanted to give in to the siren call but something nibbled at the edge of his consciousness. It took him quite a while to think what it was. Then it hit him like a sudden splash of cold water. Ezra.

He forced his eyes open to look at the clock again. He’d talked to the undercover agent last at...what? Ten the night before? No, earlier...Eight-thirty, maybe nine. Whereas Buck was starting to feel better, Ezra had sounded worse than before. _‘He’s probably better this morning,’_ Buck tried to reassure himself as he fumbled for the phone and punched in the number. It rang four times and then the answering machine picked up. Oddly enough, Ezra had never replaced the computerized “Please leave a message” with a more personal greeting. “Ezra, it’s Buck. Pick up the damn phone.”

He waited, only to be rewarded by another beep as the message time ran out. He punched the redial with the same results. Worry shivered at his spine. No matter how sick either of them had got over the last three days, they’d both answered the phone. They’d alternated calling each other a couple of times a day. Chris called daily from Wyoming, although Buck thought he’d finally managed to convince his old friend that the worst was over.

The third time he tried to call, the phone was picked up. Buck’s feeling of relief was short-lived when no one spoke. “Ezra? Ezra!”

Silence. No, not silence...something in the background...

Breathing. Erratic, tortured breathing.

“Ezra!” Buck shouted on my way. “I’m on my way. Hear me? I’ll be there in fifteen...ten minutes. Just hang on. And if nothing’s wrong you better tell me now!”

Nothing.

Buck pulled himself out of bed, grabbing the table until a wave of dizziness passed, then grabbed jeans and a sweater out of his closet.

~+~+~+~

Ezra knew he was in trouble.

After speaking with Buck the night before, he’d been certain that his illness would have to wane soon. If Wilmington--who had eaten two servings of the tainted soup as compared to his one--was on the mend, surely he’d have to feel better himself soon. With that thought in mind, he’d dragged his aching body to the kitchen and made a pot of his herbal tea. It usually quieted his nerves and his stomach. With it he tried a couple bites of some Dutch shortbread cookies one of his ex-step-sisters had sent him upon hearing of his move to Denver over two years earlier. The snack set off another round of violent vomiting that continued long after there was anything to bring up. Several more times during the night shooting pains in his abdomen had forced his weary body from bed to stagger to the bathroom for more bouts of relentless retching. Finally, he just dragged a blanket in there and curled up on the cold tile floor between bouts of vomiting and agonizing fiery cramps in his belly.

He must have dozed a little, to wake up before seven. All of his muscles ached from spending the night on the cold floor; when he finally managed to gain his feet shooting pains cramped his legs. His arms trembled violently when he tried to grab the side of the sink to stabilize himself. His face in the mirror was white, with harsh lines engraved around his mouth and sickly shadows under the eyes. His hair, dirty and unkempt, stood up in little spikes.

_‘Mother would be aghast if she saw me now.’_ Maude placed great stock in appearances. He’d always suspected she had prepared for his own birth by having a facial and her hair freshly done.

He twisted the faucet and cold water gushed from the tap. Still hanging on to the sink with one hand for balance, he used the other to scoop handfuls of water over his face and into his hair. The cold water felt wonderful to his clammy skin. He eyed the shower longingly, but knew he didn’t have enough energy to stay upright for any amount of time. 

Pain struck again--sudden and fierce and deadly. Ezra crumpled, his forehead striking the sink a glancing blow as he fell. He curled in a fetal position as the agony twisted through his guts. Nausea tore through him. Anything he could bring up long since gone, he succumbed helplessly to dry heaves. It seemed to last forever. His body was out of control. All Ezra could do was try to endure it.

Finally, as suddenly as it had attacked him, the pain was gone again. Ezra went limp, clouds of blackness swirling around him. Something was in his mouth and he tried to spit it out, feeling wetness dribble over his chin. Unable to open his eyes, he drifted away, face pressed against the cold tile floor.

How long he was out he didn’t know. Finally cold chills dragged him from the relative peace of unconsciousness and he blinked awake, trying to clear his vision. The room swam into focus around him. Moving cautiously--afraid to rouse the dragon of fiery pain that seemed to have taken permanent residence in his stomach--he shifted back a few inches. 

His eyes locked on the crimson splatters on the floor.

_‘Oh shit--‘_

He convulsed again, angry claws of pain tearing deep inside, twisting him helplessly before the onslaught. He gagged and choked, his mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood. Something wet and sticky dribbled over his chin and more crimson drops joined the others on the floor.

This time when it stopped he stayed conscious, but barely. He gasped for breath. One thought forced itself into his mind.

Buck. Buck would help him. 

Unable to rise, he dragged himself--inch by painful inch--into his bedroom. He had to stop three times to force back the cloying blackness that threatened to overwhelm him. Every bit of carpet conquered a triumph between him and the enemy trying to destroy him from inside.

Finally--it could have been minutes or hours later--he reached his bed. Exhausted--unable now to even lift his head--he summoned up the strength to reach up and yank the cordless phone down to the floor.

Ice cold and shaking fingers punched in the numbers. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t think. Could only hope he dialed the right number. 

No answer. Defeated, Ezra dropped the phone.

The pain struck. Ezra had nothing left to fight it. He rolled over as his stomach twisted again. The tearing claws raked upward through his stomach and throat, burning pain in the wake. This time he embraced the darkness with a sob of relief.

~+~+~+~

He moaned. Something was trying to drag him from the safety of blackness. ‘No.’He didn’t want to wake up again. Waking brought pain. Darkness was better. 

But whatever it was kept on. A familiar sound. Urgent. A sound that demanded an answer.

_‘Phone.’_

Unable to open his eyes, his hand felt around, fingers touching the cold plastic. Bringing it to his face he clicked the “on” button. He tried to find words but it was too difficult. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath...

“Ezra!” Buck’s voice, harsh and full of panic. “I’m on my way--“

Buck. Buck knew he was in trouble. Buck was coming. Buck could take care of it. 

Ezra dropped the phone and let everything slip away


	2. SECOND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get much much worse, especially for Ezra. Chris surprises Buck right into the ER. Buck remembers back to the last case, and Sarah. Nathan and JD are stuck across the country, and no one is quite sure where Josiah is.

Buck ignored his own limbs shaking, the pounding of his head, as he careened around corners and broke every speed law between his loft and Ezra’s condo. He screeched his battered pickup truck to a stop at the curb. Forest Glen Condominiums was built in a crescent pattern, with the units on the inside of the crescent facing the pool and tennis courts, the ones on the outside looking onto wooded grounds and a small, man-made lake with an ornamental bridge and fountains. Ezra lived in 1-F, the last unit on the outside loop, farthest from the road. Buck ignored the tastefully rustic pathway and plunged directly across the velvet grass to Ezra’s door. He banged on the door with one fist while punching the doorbell with the index finger of the other hand.

No response. Buck hadn’t really expected one, but he was too well-trained in survival to go busting into someone’s apartment without warning. Ezra was a damn good shot.

He had a key. Thank God for that. For months after his assignment to Team Seven, Ezra had kept himself separate from his teammates. Slowly the cool, uncaring persona had crumbled slightly as his friends learned more about what had happened to him in Atlanta and about the demons that haunted the suave undercover agent’s past. Somehow, at some point, Chris had acquired a key from Ezra and secretly made copies for the others. “Just in case,” he’d said. In their line of work such precautions never hurt.

Buck didn’t know when Ezra had found out about the spare keys. Hell, maybe he’d known all along. Buck suspected Ezra liked the fact his friends--family--had the access even if he was unable to lower his personal walls enough to give it to them. One night while they were undercover on the Hoyt case Ezra had requested Buck go to his condo to pick something up, saying simply “Use your key.” Then he’d grinned at the stunned look on Wilmington’s face before writing down the code to disarm the security system.

Now Buck fitted the key into the lock and eased the door open, calling out “Ezra! It’s me!” The security system was armed and he quickly neutralized it before speeding past the living room and kitchen toward the bedrooms at the back. A quick glance around the expensively furnished master bedroom didn’t reveal his friend. The bathroom door was closed and he tapped on it before opening it cautiously and reaching for the light switch.

He blinked, his tired eyes at first refusing to interpret what they were seeing. Bright red blood spattered the glistening white tile and the rim of the toilet. 

“Oh, God,” Buck whispered as he finally realized what that meant. “Ezra!” He turned to search the other rooms. His eyes fell on the antique mahogany four poster bed--with the top of the mattress a good four feet from the floor. Instinct told him where his friend was. He rounded the bed to find Ezra crumpled on the far side, the phone near his limp hand. “Ez!”

He knelt beside his friend. Ezra wore only dark silk pajama bottoms. His face was turned away, but he stirred at Buck’s touch and the other man could see the trickle of blood coming from his mouth, the dark splatters on the carpet.

Buck lunged across his friend’s body and snatched up the phone, punching in 911. In a voice he barely recognized as his own, he snapped out his ATF identification number to the operator before demanding an ambulance and paramedics to Ezra’s address ASAP. Barely hearing her confirmation, he dropped the phone and leaned back over Standish. He gently patted his cheek. “Ezra? You with me?” 

Dazed green eyes slid open and then just as quickly closed again. “Come on, Ezra,” Buck pleaded. “The ambulance is on the way...you just hang in there, okay?”

He moved his hand to Ezra’s bare shoulder. The skin was cold to the touch and Buck frowned, snaking one arm over to pull the quilted emerald satin spread from where it was crumpled at the foot of the bed. He tucked the folds warmly around him. “Everything’s going to be okay, Ez,” he told the still figure, making his voice as calm as possible given his racing heart.

The eyelashes fluttered again, then the eyes blinked open. Cracked, dry lips tried to form words but there was no air behind them. Buck placed a reassuring hand on Ezra’s forehead. “Don’t try to talk right now, okay?” He forced a grin. “I know that’s not gonna be easy for you.”

Buck’s head came up as he heard the wail of a siren in the distance. “Sounds like they’re almost here, pard--“

Buck didn’t exactly know what happened next. Ezra moved--just barely shifting his weight--and then suddenly his body was convulsing, twisting in and on itself. Terrified at seeing fresh blood coat Ezra’s lips, Buck rolled him onto his side and dug through the folds of satin to find his hand, which he gripped tightly. “Ride it out, Pard,” he coached. “Easy...easy...”

The siren got closer, stopped outside. Buck heard a crash and a voice yelling “Hello? Paramedics!” just as Ezra’s body went limp. 

“In here!” the agent yelled. “Bedroom. Hurry!”

Two young men in dark-blue uniforms raced in, pulling a gurney laden with equipment behind them. They swarmed over Ezra, yanking away the satin coverlet to take his vitals. Buck quickly explained about the food poisoning and Ezra’s symptoms, then reluctantly moved back to allow them room. He clambered shakily to his feet. A wave of dizziness staggered him. 

“Hey, man, are you all right?” One of the paramedics looked like he was going to transfer his ministrations to Buck. Wilmington waved him off and perched heavily on the carved oak chest in the corner, his eyes on Ezra’s white face. His friend didn’t move or make a sound as the two paramedics worked on him. Buck took a deep breath. He felt strangely lightheaded and closed his eyes.

“We got a problem, Derry.”

Buck opened his eyes. The younger and heavier-set of the paramedics held an IV set-up in one hand and with the other was pinching a fold of skin at Ezra’s wrist. The other paramedic--whom Buck assumed was Derry--made a face. “Damn.”

“What’s wrong?” Buck snapped.

“Looks like your friend is pretty dehydrated.” The older man reached for the radio.

“Well, yeah, he’s dehydrated,” Buck pointed out. “He’s been throwing up for three days.”

The younger paramedic nodded at him. “Yeah...but the problem is, I can’t get a vein for the IV.”

Derry put down the radio. “Hospital says to transport STAT.”

In a short time the two paramedics had Ezra packaged up and loaded into the gurney. Buck stood up to follow them from the room, only to sway under another wave of dizziness. He had to sit back down. 

“Hey, I think you’d better come with us.” The younger paramedic--his name tag read “E. Griffiths” had seen Buck’s weakness 

Buck nodded; that had been his intention all along. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’ll be better once the hospital can get some fluid into him.” The paramedic took a quick step into the bathroom to look around. “Bright red blood,” he said, almost to himself. 

“What about it?” Buck asked sharply.

The paramedic took one end of the gurney. “Hospital will want to know. Did he throw up anything that looked like coffee grounds?”

Confused, Buck shook his head. “Not since I’ve been here. Why? Is that important?”

“We’ve got to get going,” the other paramedic broke in. “Can you make it on your own, or do we need to come back for you?”

Buck shook his head again and motioned for them to move. “I’ll make it on my own.”

**~+~+~+~**  


Wyoming:

Vin stood over the stove frying fish. They had hauled in a good catch again that morning. Vin was starting to believe no one ever fished the lake when Chris or Buck wasn’t using the cabin. He hadn’t seen another human being besides Larabee in the three days they’d been here.

Chris came in bearing another armload of wood. A cold front was moving in. Heavy clouds--streaked with angry lightning--blocked the sun.

Vin watched his best friend out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t believe how relaxed Chris looked. Buck had finally managed to convince him the day before that he and Ezra were going to survive their bouts with food poisoning, and with that last worry eased Larabee seemed to have dropped ten years. He’d even stopped worrying about what had happened to Buck during his time undercover. 

Vin still wondered if Buck had chosen not to come along on the trip because he himself had. That bothered him, but not as much as it had. The peace and relaxation of the trip was helping him, too. Chris insisted Buck had some other--unknown--reason, and Chris knew Buck.

“Smells good,” Chris said suddenly, coming into the kitchen area with his cell phone in his hand.

“Thanks.” Vin nodded at the phone. “You check in with the sickies?”

Chris tossed the phone on the counter. “Tried. Got both of their machines.”

Vin raised his eyebrows and glanced at his watch. “Little early for Ez to be out and about...’specially when he don’t have to work today.”

“Yeah. On the other hand his machine picked up right away--if he’s sleeping he might not even have heard the ring. And Buck must be feeling better if he’s not at home.”

Vin nodded. Chris started to say something else, only to be cut off by the ringing of the phone. He took the two steps needed to snatch it off the counter. “Larabee,” he barked.

Vin, watching, knew the exact second that Chris realized the call was bad news. Larabee’s eyes widened and his jaw set. He said “uh-huh” and “no” a few times, and then exploded “What kind of an idiot did that!” More silence. Then “Okay, Judge, thanks for calling. We’re on our way back. You’ll let me know if--ok, thanks.”

He clicked off the phone and looked at Vin worriedly. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What?” Vin asked quietly, removing the skillet from the fire.

“Some idiot judge released Hoyt ROR.” Larabee spat out the words. “Hoyt promptly bailed out all of his scumbag associates.”

“Shit!” Tanner swore. “ROR? The DA said it’d be at least a million if they granted bail at all!”

“Yeah, well, Travis is looking into it--sounds like something funny is going on at the courthouse. But in the meantime Travis wants Buck and Ezra in protective custody. Hoyt knows who they are, made some pretty strong threats against them after he was released. Strong enough to scare a reporter who overheard and tipped off the office...”

Somehow Vin knew the worst was yet to come. “Did Travis find Buck and Ezra?”

Chris shook his head. Vin could see the anxiety clouding his eyes. “He thought Buck was with us...but he’s been trying to call Ezra since last night--at home and on his cell. No answer.”

Vin stared at him. “I’ll start packing the gear.”

 

Denver:

Buck pulled his long legs in closer to his body, flashing an apologetic smile at the nurse he’d almost tripped up. He took another swig from the paper cup of orange juice a pink-smocked hospital volunteer had handed him earlier. For some reason it hadn’t seemed to occur to anyone to separate him from Ezra and send him off to a remote waiting room. He’d followed the gurney right into the ER and into a small cubicle where Ezra--still unconscious--was transferred to an exam bed. A doctor and two nurses had come in almost immediately. _‘Must be pretty bad if he gets seen right away,’_ Buck worried silently, being more acquainted than he would like to be with modern health care methodology. 

Buck had answered questions about the food poisoning, his symptoms, Ezra’s symptoms, and Ezra’s overall health, while the hospital staff tried fruitlessly to find an adequate vein to start the IV. Finally the doctor--a tanned blond young man who looked like an extra on “Baywatch”--announced they needed to do a “cut down”. He’d nicely suggested Buck wait outside. An orderly directed him to a tiny corner set up as a waiting area--a couple of chairs, an ice machine--and left him there. The curtain around Ezra’s bed was pulled but Buck could hear what was going on, heard when Ezra regained consciousness and almost immediately suffered another one of those agonizing seizures. Buck stood up to go to him. The room did a sickening 180-degree turn and for a second he felt sure he was going to end up on his butt. Someone grabbed his arm and guided him back to his seat. “Hey, Mr. Wilmington, easy there.”

Buck looked up to see Derry, one of the paramedics who had treated Ezra. He had a paper bag in one hand and he held onto Buck’s arm with the other. “Hey, why don’t I get a doctor to take a look at you while you’re here?”

Buck shook his head, wishing he didn’t feel so much like a day-old pup. “Nah...I’m okay. Just tired an’ worried.” He pointed at the closed curtain. “What’s goin’ on in there?”

“Dr. Baker did a cut-down to get an IV established in his foot,” the paramedic replied. Buck winced. He wasn’t sure exactly what all that entailed but it sounded painful. “I’m sure he’ll start doing much better when they can get some fluid into him.” The paramedic studied Buck’s face. “Bet some fluids would help you too...I’ll get one of the volunteers to bring you something.”

That had been over half an hour ago. The volunteer had turned up with the orange juice and a little later, another woman--in a suit this time--came to give him a clipboard full of forms. Buck flashed her a modified version of the Wilmington Lady Killer Smile--too modified apparently, because she didn’t give him a second glance--merely told him in a bored voice to give the clipboard to one of the ER staff when he was done. Then she turned on her heel and swished away, leaving Buck with the paperwork. He glanced at them with distaste and then pulled the pen free from the clip and started filling them out. He’d done this plenty of times in the past--for Chris, when they were partners in the Denver PD, and more recently for JD--but never for Ezra before. Offhand he didn’t know who might have completed them in Ezra’s case. Now, looking down at the familiar questions, Buck was struck by just how little he knew about his friend’s past. For so long Ezra had floated at the edges of the tightly-knit little group that was Team Seven. He seemed content to be there; happy to keep his teammates at a distance. It was only within the last year or so that the walls around the aloof southerner had started to crumble. Buck and the others now knew the truth about what had happened to Ezra in Atlanta; the truth about the vicious rumors of him being on the take that had almost destroyed the younger man. Ezra had been set up as a scapegoat by one of the few people he trusted--a man who later tried to kill him. _‘Hell, no wonder Ez wanted to keep us all at arm’s length.’_

Buck stared at the blank next to the question, “Birthplace”. He didn’t have a clue. Somewhere in the South, he imagined. He knew, from things Ezra had let slip, that he’d moved around a lot as a child, lived with various family members interspersed with short, traumatic times with his mother. Later he’d gone to a series of high-dollar boarding schools, mostly in Europe, financed by one or the other of Maude’s rich ex-husbands.

He skipped the birthplace question. How important could that be? He knew Ezra’s birth date and he printed it carefully in the space provided. Some flicker of intelligence had led him to grab Ezra’s wallet off the bedside table just before following the paramedics out of the bedroom, and fortunately Ezra’s ATF ID, drivers license and insurance card were all in it. On the medical history page he glanced down the long list of “Has the patient ever had ____?” questions, shrugged, and wrote neatly in the margin _“Contact Dr. Murray at Four Corners General”._ Lauren Murray was an old friend of Chris’ and also head of ER at the hospital where various members of Team Seven seemed to end up periodically. Buck figured she had a medical file on each of them tucked in her desk somewhere.

 

**Part 7**

Once the paperwork was more or less completed Buck alternated between staring at the curtain shielding Ezra’s cubicle and gazing unseeingly at the organized chaos of the rest of the emergency room. He drank half a cup of coffee from the machine, but dumped the rest when his uneasy stomach warned him off. A glance at his bare wrist belatedly reminded him he’d forgotten both his watch and his cell phone in his mad dash to get to Ezra’s condo. The clock above the nursing station indicated the time was four-thirty. Over three hours since they’d arrived at the hospital. _‘I should call Chris,’_ Buck thought, but there were no pay phones in the ER and he didn’t want to leave to go out to the waiting room. _‘I’ll call when I know something,’_ he decided. Finally, his body aching with fatigue from his own three-day bout with illness, he leaned his head against the wall, tried to find some way to stretch his legs out comfortably without tripping anyone, and closed his eyes.

 

_flashback_

“Good Lord,” Ezra groaned as the car came to a stop in the long driveway. “What a perfectly awful example of abhorrent architecture and extravagant expenditure our host resides in.”

Buck laughed as he took in the modernistic white villa. “Looks like an overgrown igloo,” he quipped as he got out of the car. Playing his part, he went around and opened the back passenger door for his “boss.” Ezra got out and straightened the seams of his Armani jacket. Ever mindful of unseen eyes watching, Buck casually parted his own jacket so that his sidearm could be seen, before shadowing the smaller man up the walkway and to the glass front doors. The left-hand one opened before they’d reached the first step. A balding, slightly overweight man stood there. “Ah, Mr. Steen, you’re here. And right on time.” He extended a hand on which were several garish rings.

“Mr. Hoyt,” Ezra purred back. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to our meeting. And might I compliment you on your charming home?”

Buck kept a straight face as he smoothly stepped in front of Ezra to enter the door first. Hoyt stood aside for him. Buck checked the entry hall and walked the few steps to a balcony overlooking a sunken living room. Late afternoon sunlight flooded the room from one whole wall of glass. Waiting until his eyes adjusted, Buck surveyed the room and its occupants--two women and a half dozen men--before stepping back and nodding to Ezra. Taking up his position at Ezra’s back, he followed the other two men down a glass staircase into the living room. Hoyt was introducing the others in the room to “Edward Steen” and Ezra was murmuring vague pleasantries. 

Buck stiffened, his eyes fixed on the younger of the two women in the room. Young...JD’s age or maybe even younger. Her slender figure moved with unconscious grace as she approached, one hand going up to push back the light brown, curly hair that framed her oval face. 

Buck couldn’t breathe. He felt, rather than saw, Ezra’s concerned glance as Hoyt stepped forward to take the young woman’s hand. “Edward, I’d like you to meet my niece. She’s here on a short break from school in France.”

_‘Niece?’_ Buck thought dizzily. _‘I don’t remember Hoyt having a niece...’_ Hoyt must have said her name at some point, for Ezra took her extended hand and bowed over it. “Miss Bryant, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Buck could have cried as her rosebud lips curved into a perfect smile that lit up her eyes. “Please, Mr. Steen...call me Sarah.”

The world rocked crazily around Buck.

 

“Buck!”

Buck blinked, realizing he’d been paying no attention as he drove toward the hotel. Fortunately traffic was light at this hour.

He met Ezra’s concerned gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Did you say somethin’, Pard?”

“I would say so. I have been attempting to attract your attention for at least five minutes,” the younger man responded huffily. Studying his friend’s face, he said, “Would you care to elucidate what is occupying your mind this evening?”

“Since when does Hoyt have a niece? I don’t remember anything about a niece in the background stuff we got.” _‘And I should know,’_ Buck added silently. He had done most of the background check personally.

Ezra’s brow furrowed. “Miss Bryant? She’s his wife’s niece actually. His first wife, that is.”

Buck nodded, remembering Hoyt’s first wife had been killed ten years before in a light-plane crash. Ezra went on, “Miss Bryant was educated in Europe...she’s attending the Sorbonne now.” His concerned look deepened. Dropping his polished persona like a drape, he said gently, “What’s wrong, Buck?”

“Her name’s Sarah--“

Ezra frowned, then his face lightened with understanding. “She has the same name as Mr. Larabee’s wife--“

Buck laughed without humor. “Oh, it’s more than her name, Pard. She’s the spittin’ image of Sarah. She could be her twin!”

_end flashback_  

“Mr. Wilmington?”

Startled, Buck opened his eyes. A man stood in front of him, thick blond hair damp with sweat. “I’m Dr. Baker. I’m taking care of your friend.”

**~+~+~+~**

Chris shifted in the passenger seat of his Dodge Ram and made a conscious effort to ease muscles too tight with tension. The rain had started just as they reached the main road and in a matter of minutes the fat, gentle raindrops had escalated into a deluge as the skies seemingly opened and cascaded water onto the land. What Buck would call a “toad-strangler”.

Chris’s half smile vanished. Buck...

The digital clock on the dash said five fifty-seven, yet it was as black as midnight outside the truck. Vin fought to keep the big vehicle on the road. He had forestalled Chris driving by simply grabbing the keys and swinging up into the driver’s seat. Chris didn’t argue. His foot pressed to the floorboard as if he could make the truck go faster, but logically he knew Vin was driving as fast as he could, probably even faster than he should given the weather conditions. It would help no one if they ended up in a ditch.

Still...

A six-hour drive back to Denver. Six hours in good weather conditions. More like seven or eight with this rain.

Anything could happen in eight hours. Anything could happen in six hours.

Something could have happened already.

_‘Please let them be okay. Both of them.’_

Staring out into the inky blackness, his thoughts were inevitably drawn back to another night years before. 

_Flashback_

~~It had rained all the way to Colorado Springs that morning. Buck kept complaining he couldn’t see. The truck really did need new windshield wipers. After the all-day training session finally let out around four-thirty, they found an auto-parts store and got a new set. There was a Mexican restaurant nearby--brightly lit and cheerful against the gloom of early evening.

Buck grinned as a couple of young women--office workers from the looks of them--giggled coyly at the big agent as they sashayed into the cantina. “Hey, Pard,” he grinned. “How ‘bout an early dinner?”

“Ought to be gettin’ back,” Chris drawled. He barely managed to restrain his grin at the downcast look on his friend’s face. Poor Buck looked so forlorn standing in the rain. Chris turned the screws a little deeper. “Ya know Sarah will be keepin’ dinner warm. Think she was goin’ to make liver and onions, just for you.”

Buck looked horrified. The very first time Sarah’d made dinner for him-- before she and Chris were married--she’d made liver and onions. Buck hated liver. But he didn’t know Sarah all that well yet and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he’d extravagantly praised the meal. That sealed his fate. Convinced that Buck loved liver and onions, Sarah “treated” him to the meal on special occasions. Buck didn’t realize how much of a sacrifice it really was because Sarah hated the smell of cooking liver. Chris loved liver and onions so he never told either of them the truth about how the other one felt. Sarah doggedly continued to make liver and onions for Buck, and Buck continued to choke it down and come up with compliments about it.

“Oh, Chris,” Buck almost yodeled. “It’s a long drive back in the rain and a man needs somethin’ under his belt...” Buck’s eyes lost focus as another bevy of beauties trotted into the restaurant.

“Yeah, you’re thinkin’ about under your belt all right,” Chris returned. He clapped his partner on the back. “Come on, Cowboy...can’t have you wasting away, can I?”

The food was great, the atmosphere cheerful. The specialty of the bar was a sangria punch. Buck--the designated driver--only drank one (it was never a good idea for a cop to get caught DUI in another town) but he had a good time flirting and dancing with the ladies. Chris enjoyed the food and wine but was more than ready to drag Buck out of there about seven-thirty. The smoke and noise--on top of the fluorescent lighting in the conference room all day--was giving him a headache.

He dozed off on the way back to Denver. Half-aware, he vaguely realized when Buck made the turn off the highway to the ranch. A few minutes later he was yanked rudely from sleep when Buck stomped on the brakes. “Jesus, Buck, what the hell--“

It was the look on his friend’s face that stopped him. Buck’s eyes were huge and he looked like a man who’d just seen his worst nightmare come true. “God no, God, no,” he kept whispering, staring ahead.

Chris didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to know what could make his friend look like that. Buck turned to him. “Chris--“ he said brokenly.

Chris looked out the window. Flashing lights, police cars. An ambulance. Fire truck, the firemen attending to a burned-out vehicle.

Oh, God, no....

A tiny body on a stretcher, being raced to the waiting ambulance.

A sealed black body bag awaiting transport into the Coroner's wagon...

Chris’ eyes traveled back to the smoking ruined truck. His truck.

Sarah! Adam!

_End Flashback_

 

“Chris?”

Chris blinked at Vin’s repetition of his name. “Sorry...guess my mind wandered for a minute.”

His friend looked at him out of the corner of his eyes but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The silence spoke for both of them.

Sighing, Chris looked at the dashboard clock again. He fumbled for his cell phone, first hitting the speed dial for Buck’s cell phone, then Ezra’s. No answer from either number. Then he punched in Buck’s home phone; getting the machine, he disconnected. He’d already left a half-dozen messages of the “Where are you, call me now!” variety on both men’s answering machines. But, just in case, he called Ezra’s condo once again, with no answer.

He felt the vehicle show down and looked up at Vin’s soft curse. “Looks like we got a problem,” the sharpshooter said simply.

Up ahead were flashing lights, and a man in a bright rain slicker waving an orange beacon. He came trotting up to the truck and Vin rolled down the window. “Sorry, guys,” the man said breathlessly. “Bridge is out. You’ll have to double back to Highway 98 and take the detour through Terrytown.”

“How far is that?” Chris snapped.

The man shrugged. “Thirty miles, maybe more. But it’s the only way. This rain we’ve been having, the river is close to flood stage and they’ve closed down all the bridges except the one below Terrytown.”

Chris fell back in the seat. “Damn.”

 

**Denver:**

“Mr. Wilmington?”

“How is he, Doc? Is he going to be okay?” Buck started to stand up but the doctor waved him back down and perched on the seat opposite him.

“He’s in pretty rough shape. We’ve got him on IV fluids and oxygen, he was having some trouble breathing. And he’s in a lot of pain.” The doctor frowned. “When did this supposed food poisoning occur?”

Buck had to think. “Saturday night.”

Doctor Baker looked puzzled. “I just don’t understand--his initial labwork is very strange. It doesn’t jibe with the food poisoning that was reported at that restaurant. Unless...was he sick before?”

“No, not sick,” Buck admitted. “But he was...on an assignment. A long one, and he doesn’t always eat or sleep real well when he’s...”

“...undercover?” the doctor asked.

Buck glanced at him, surprised. The doctor shrugged. “I did my internship at Walter Reed in DC. We got a lot of FBI, CIA agents there, worked with the Occupational Stress Center at Quantico.”

Buck hesitated. “He does some undercover work,” he finally admitted.

The doctor seemed to understand Buck couldn’t go into many details. He looked back down at the clipboard he held in his hands. “Well, as I said before he’s in pretty rough shape--nothing we can’t clear up given time and treatment.” He looked back up at Buck. “Which is part of the problem. He really doesn’t want to let us do anything. He’s pretty out of it but anytime we try to touch him he gets very agitated. I don’t know if he’s delirious or does he just really not like doctors?”

Buck closed his eyes. He could hear Ezra’s voice in his mind, _“Sometimes I wake up and I don’t know who I’m supposed to be or who I can trust... I’m afraid I’m going to say something that will blow my cover or yours or someone else’s...”_ Ezra had been drunk that night, one of maybe three times Buck had ever seen him that way, and exhausted--he hadn’t used any of his multi-syllable words and the poker mask of his face had disappeared to be replaced by real fear. 

“Mr. Wilmington?” 

Buck opened his eyes at the doctor’s voice. “Sorry...my mind wandered.”

Dr. Baker looked at him keenly. “You’re not feeling well yourself, are you?”

“No...I’m okay.” Buck straightened up. “Let me see Ezra, I’ll try to get him calmed down some.” The doctor nodded and started to stand up. “Oh, and Doc?” He waited until the younger man looked at him before he grinned. “Ezra really doesn’t like doctors...or hospitals. If you want to keep him in here, you’re going to have to let me stay with him...’cause otherwise, he’ll be out of here before you know it.”

The doctor looked skeptical. “He’s not in any shape to leave under his own power.”

Buck grinned even wider. “That’s never stopped him before. Trust me on this one, doc...or if you don’t, call over to Four Corners or Mercy General...they can tell you about Ezra Standish...he’s famous for his escapes!”

**~+~+~+~**

Pain.

Waves of it, rolling through his belly. His legs cramped up, his head pounded--even his eyes hurt.

Strange people, people he didn’t know, surrounding him, touching him. Unfamiliar voices in a clamor around him. Bright lights overhead, searing his tender eyes.

The pain stabbed through his stomach again and he heard his own voice moaning, protesting. He bit his lip to keep from saying anything. He didn’t know where he was, something was wrong...this might not be a safe place...

Someone touched his shoulder. He twisted away, trying to escape the touch as well as the agony in his own body. Another voice spoke...quiet, soothing. 

Familiar.

The voice of a friend.

A voice that meant it was safe. He wasn’t alone.

“Easy, Ez...just try to relax. You’re goin’ to be okay. They’re going to give you something to help the pain...”

He stiffened. The hand slipped from his shoulder down to grasp his hand. “It’s okay, Pard, you hear me? I’m right here. Just relax and let go. I’ll be here.”

Waves of soothing darkness beckoned, warmth spread up from his hand to his whole body, pushing aside the pain, the fear. The voice said it was safe. He could relax...

Ezra slid into the comforting darkness.

 

**Northern Colorado:**

Chris Larabee knew Hell. He’d been there before.

Hell was coming up that rainy road and seeing the burning hulk of his own pickup.

Hell was seeing the small, badly burned body strapped to the stretcher and rushed to the waiting ambulance.

Hell was seeing the filled black body bag being carried to the coroner’s wagon. Knowing that the bag contained his wife, his love.

His soul.

Hell was four days sitting next to his dying son in the Burn Ward. Hell was hearing him scream from the pain of his burns. Holding him as he took his last breath and finally slipped away from the agony of his body.

Leaving behind Chris Larabee, an angry, bitter man, lashing out at the world around him

His sojourn in Hell had been a long one. Only gradually had he started the climb back to life.

And now he was in Hell again.

Helpless in this vehicle, a hundred miles and hours from where he needed to be. Not knowing where two of his men were. 

No.

Two of his family.

He prayed to a God he’d long since turned his back on.

_‘Let them be okay.’_

He glanced at the clock on the dash. 

Ten twenty two.

 

Denver

Buck napped fitfully, trying to curl his six-foot-four body into a comfortable position in the plastic-seated chair. Every few minutes he’d wake, to focus bleary eyes first on Ezra’s still figure in the bed, and then on the small arsenal of machines surrounding him. Nathan, Josiah, or even Ezra himself would know what they were for. Buck recognized the heart monitor only because he’d asked a nurse what the leads on Ezra’s chest were for. Either because she was very nice or because she’d succumbed to his charm--he suspected the former because, hell, he just didn’t feel well enough to be charming--she’d explained that Ezra’s heartbeat and breathing had both been irregular when he was admitted and pointed out the machines that were monitoring each of them. The same nurse had come in later to start an IV in Ezra’s hand, commenting that Standish’s veins had “plumped up” enough to do so. For a few minutes all Buck could think of was some hot dog commercial where the motto was “they plump when you cook ‘em.” He’d laughed. The nurse had given him a rather strange look and left, but she’d reappeared a few minutes later with a glass of orange juice and a blanket for Buck, and reassured him that Ezra was stable at the moment and that he should go down to the cafeteria for something to eat. Buck accepted the juice and blanket but shook his head at the cafeteria. Not only did he not want to leave Ezra--sedated or not, he wouldn’t put it past the ornery cuss to disappear the minute his back was turned--but his stomach churned uneasily at the mere thought of food.

Now he opened his eyes again. His vision was still blurry. Pushing the blanket aside, Buck hauled himself to his feet and stepped into the bathroom. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face and neck. He filled the plastic cup with water and drank, trying to eliminate the taste in his mouth. His face in the mirror was pale, grayish, with circles under his eyes and harsh lines around the mouth. Shaking his head, he turned off the light and returned to the chair. 

He studied the figure in the bed. Ezra had been restless when they’d first settled him in this room, obviously in pain and fighting the sedation. Over the last few hours he’d quieted, but now he seemed to be rousing again, shifting uneasily in the bed and moaning. His free hand came up to swipe at the oxygen tube under his nose.

Buck caught the hand. “Leave it be, Ez.” He leaned closer to the bed, still holding his friend’s hand. “Ez? Can you hear me?”

Ezra mumbled incoherently.

“Come’n, Ez,” Buck coaxed. “Wake up for a minute for me.”

Eyelids fluttered and for a second Buck was sure they’d open. But they didn’t. Ezra sighed and moved his head on the pillow, then seemed to slip into a deeper sleep.

_‘Damn.’_

Buck knew Ezra needed rest, but he was worried about the other man. Seemed like if Ezra would just wake up for a few minutes, Buck could be sure he was going to be okay.

With a final squeeze he placed Ezra’s hand on the bed. He leaned back in the chair, winced, changed position and tried to find a comfortable way to sit. His whole body ached and he was getting a horrendous headache.

He needed to get up. Move around. Maybe find some coffee. Surely that would help fight this groggy, tired feeling. And he needed to call Chris. He _really_ needed to call Chris. Larabee would be pissed if he knew Ezra was in the hospital and Buck hadn’t called. He was going to be pissed anyway that Buck waited so long to call. 

On the other hand...it was late. Buck didn’t know for sure what time it was, but he knew it was well after eleven--shift change at the hospital. Chris and Vin might already be asleep. Both of them tended to be early risers and being on vacation at the cabin wouldn’t change that. _‘Vin’s probably been gettin’ up before sunrise to get after them fish.’_

Buck stood up, then quickly dropped back down into the chair as a wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him. His head pounded in time with his pulse. Suddenly even the dimly lit hospital room seemed too bright, the beeping monitors too loud. The tall man squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his temples.

Slowly the pain receded slightly. He dropped his hands but kept his eyes closed. ‘Just need some rest. Just a little rest...’

 

**Part 9**

Fire.

The smoldering wreckage of the truck. Flares. Red and blue emergency lights eerily marking the familiar landscape.

A closed body bag being carried to a long black station wagon.

Adam, his small body bandaged, first crying, screaming in his agony, then unable to breathe...life support...drifting away.

Grief welling up, rage taking over...yelling something--something at Buck. Buck’s face going white and still, his eyes closing...

The body bag in front of him. Opening it. Ezra staring up at him.

Buck’s face, white and still, the eyes closed.

No!--

 

“Chris!”

Larabee snapped awake, eyes staring around wildly until he recognized his surroundings. Recognized that they were on a multi-laned freeway and the lights of downtown Denver glowed in the distance.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost midnight.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” he growled.

Tanner shot him a sidelong glance. “Didn’t need two of us to drive,” he pointed out quietly. “Where do you want to go first?”

“Ezra’s place, I guess. It’s the closest.”

Vin nodded. “We’ll find ‘em, Cowboy.”

“We’d better,” Chris grumbled under his breath. He sighed. “I should have made them come with us.”

Vin quirked his lips. “You got some secret super power I don’t know about? No one was goin’ to make Ezra spend his vacation in ‘uncivilized surroundings’.” He imitated the undercover agent’s drawl. “And I ain’t never seen you make Buck do anythin’ he didn’t damn well want to do anyway.”

Chris couldn’t help the smile that briefly crossed his face. “No. Buck does what he thinks is right. Always been that way.” He wondered--again--why Buck had suddenly changed his mind about accompanying them, then realized with a sudden chill he might never know. _‘Damn it, you two’d better be all right.’_

His cell phone rang. Chris grabbed it up off the dashboard and fumbled it to his ear. “Larabee,” he snapped.

_“Chris. Travis here. We found them.”_

**~+~+~+~**

Chris busted through the entrance of Lakewood-Saint David’s Hospital, Vin hot on his heels. A uniformed security officer moved to block them. “Visiting hours are over--“ he started.

Chris didn’t stop. “Which way to room 4712?” he demanded.

“Visiting hours--“

Vin scrabbled in his pocket and yanked out his badge, forestalling Chris from simply decking the man. _‘He’s just tryin’ to do his job,'_ he reasoned to himself. Waving the identification in the startled man’s face, he repeated Chris’ words. “Which way to room 4712?” His voice was soft and menacing.

The guard blinked, looking from the long-haired man to his glowering companion. He shuddered at the feral look on both of their faces. _‘Hell they don’t pay me enough to get in the way of guys like this--‘_

He pointed down the hall to the left. “Take the first set of elevators to the fourth floor, turn right when you get off and follow the signs.” He moved toward the phone on his desk. “I’ll let the nurses station know you’re on your way up.”

 

There was only one nurse on duty at the big round Nursing Station on Four East. She hesitated when she saw the two men storm off the elevator, but she didn’t try to stop them. Instead she pointed down the hall directly across from her position. “Third door down on the right,” she said quietly. Vin nodded his thanks. Chris ignored her but moved swiftly in the indicated direction. Vin lengthened his stride and reached the door a half step before his friend. A red and white sign posted at eye-level proclaimed “Warning! Oxygen In Use.” Aware of Chris hovering impatiently behind him, Vin carefully eased the door open.

The only light in the room came from the half-panel over the bed. Vin could see Ezra asleep in the bed. The Southerner was much too pale. IV’s fed into both hands and a tube in his nose delivered oxygen. Thin wires running from one of the monitors next to the bed disappeared under the plain hospital gown, and something that looked like a white plastic clothespin was clipped to his left index finger. 

And next to the bed--his tall body folded awkwardly into a typically uncomfortable-looking hospital chair--Buck Wilmington slumbered. His level of exhaustion was apparent when he merely stirred at their entrance but didn’t open his eyes.

Vin felt Chris relax for a split second, then tense up again. The sudden anger rolling off him like steam, Larabee dodged around Vin and yanked Buck out of the chair, shoving the taller man against the wall and shaking him. “Where the hell have you been?” he yelled when Buck’s eyes snapped open.

Vin winced at the look on Buck’s face. He started forward, then hesitated. If it had been anyone else on the receiving end of Chris Larabee’s ire he might have interceded or at least tried to calm Chris down, but Vin never interfered between Chris and his oldest friend. Their relationship went back too many years, had too many layers, too much history, for Vin to feel comfortable getting in between them. Instead he moved around the bed as Ezra moved his head restlessly on the pillow. “Go back to sleep, Pard,” he whispered reassuringly. “It’s okay.”

 

Buck Wilmington didn’t know what the hell was going on. One minute he was dozing restlessly in that cursed chair, the next minute he was flying through the air and slamming into the wall. He forced open his eyes to see very familiar icy green ones staring menacingly at him. “Chris?” he asked, feeling muddled. “What are you doing here? Somethin’ wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” Chris hissed. “Ezra’s in the hospital...no one could find you two all day long...I thought you were dead, you stupid bastard!”

In all fairness to Buck, he had no idea that Hoyt or his men had been released or that he and Ezra had been in any danger from anything other than food poisoning. Besides, his head was pounding and having his old friend slam him into a wall wasn’t helping any. Sometimes Buck got real tired of being on the receiving end of Larabee’s bad moods.

Larabee’s face wavered in front of him and suddenly Buck was transported back to another time, a dark time in both of their lives. He couldn’t help it, he threw up a hand to protect his face.

A shocked Chris dropped him as if scalded. He stepped back, staring at Buck in horror. “Buck, I--“ he started.

 

Vin was rapidly regretting his decision not to get involved. He was almost as shocked as Chris at the way Buck reacted. He’d never seen such a look on Wilmington’s face before--lost, hopeless. Chris must have known the look, though...he backed away from Buck and held his hands out pleadingly. “Buck, I--“ he started.

 

Buck shook his head, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision. The room was spinning around him. He could hear Chris saying something but he couldn’t make out words over the buzzing arising in his ears. He felt himself falling forward and everything went black.

 

Chris jumped forward to catch him. He gently lowered his friend to the floor, pulling his head into his lap. Buck’s eyes were closed and he didn’t respond when Chris anxiously called his name. Vin started over to them, only to whirl around, drawing his weapon, as the door slammed open. The nurse who had been at the desk rushed in, stopping short as she found herself confronted with Vin’s gun. The sharpshooter quickly slid it back into his shoulder holster. “Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered sheepishly.

Dixie Dunn had been a RN for over thirty years, including three tours of duty in Viet Nam. Her eyes didn’t even flicker as she said, “Don’t you ever point that thing at me again, Blue Eyes. What the hell is going on in here, anyway?”

Vin blushed.

The door slammed open again. Two uniformed cops burst in, weapons drawn. “Freeze! Denver PD!”

The sudden silence that followed was broken by a soft southern voice from the bed. “Gentlemen, what...has transpired while... I have been sleeping to have brought...us to such extreme circumstances?”

 

**Part 10**

Marcus Hoyt considered himself a generous man, an educated man, a patron of the arts and a believer in the sanctity of Life. He attended Mass regularly at the local Catholic parish and gave large donations to anti-abortion groups. He endowed scholarships at the private University he had attended (although he’d not actually graduated). That his money was obtained by selling large numbers of illegal arms to people who in turn used these weapons to kill other people, was not something that he let bother him.

After all, it wasn’t like he knew any of the people that were killed by his guns. He considered himself a businessman, an entrepreneur. The salesman who had sold him his sports car, after all, never worried that he might kill someone while driving it.

He made it a practice to avoid blood on his own hands as much as possible. Therefore, when he was arrested and first realized someone in his organization was actually working undercover for the federal government, his first thought was bribery, not murder. Government employees were notoriously underpaid--surely some low-level clerk (for he was convinced the “mole” was an accounting clerk he’d obtained a few months before from a temporary agency) would be glad to take a hundred grand or so and forget anything incriminating he might have seen.

And then his defense attorney--a high-powered, over-paid, under-ethical slippery snake--somehow managed to find out the names of the two undercover agents. Ezra Standish. Buck Wilmington. 

Better known to Hoyt as Edward Steen and his bodyguard/assistant, Brian Jakes.

Rage coursed through Hoyt, the kind of red-blood rage that can only come through betrayal. He’d taken Steen in, treated him as a friend--no, more-- taken him into his home. Brought him into the close circle he considered family.

And Jakes--Wilmington--had spent time with Sarah. A lot of time with her. Taken her out even. Hell, he’d made a play for her! And the innocent girl had fallen for the tall, smooth-tongued bastard. She’d left to return to Paris practically broken-hearted at leaving him.

_‘There’s a special Hell reserved for a man who uses an innocent girl.’_

Bribery was no longer an option. Steen and Jakes--Standish and Wilmington--had betrayed family. They would pay the ultimate price for that betrayal.

Hoyt picked up the phone. He punched in a number he’d memorized a long time ago. After three rings it was picked up. He spoke to the voice on the other end. “I have a job for you.”

**~+~+~+~**

Dr. Craig Baker got a break around midnight. Sighing in relief, he slipped off to the resident’s lounge and made himself comfortable on the bed in the corner. It had been a fairly quiet night so far--the only serious case being the ATF agent with food poisoning--but with the rain-slicked streets and low visibility, a spate of car crashes was likely before morning.

He frowned as his muscles slowly relaxed, thinking about Agent Standish and his earlier phone conversation with Dr. Murray at Four Corners Medical Center. She’d bluntly told him to “count his blessings” he only had one worried partner to deal with, mentioning that when any of ATF Team Seven were hospitalized under her care, she had six anxious men to deal with. _“Wilmington won’t give you many problems, except for flirting with every nurse on the floor,”_ she’d assured him. _“He’s actually one of the more laid-back of the bunch, especially if you don’t try to make him leave his friend. And since it’s Standish you’re trying to treat, you don’t want him left alone. Not for a minute, I don’t care if you think he’s in a coma! The man is a slippery eel. I swore the next time I had to admit him I’d put him in restraints.”_

Trusting her word, Baker had left instructions that no one was to disturb Agent Wilmington with any comments about visiting hours or leaving patients to get their rest. He’d peeped in on the two men just before heading to the lounge and they were both sleeping. Wilmington didn’t look good but if he was getting over that food poisoning too--

He shook his head, feeling sleep creep over his mind. Those blood tests on Standish. The results were different from what he’d expected. And what was with that erratic heartbeat? He’d treated five others who’d dined on fish at Duchienne’s that night, and none of them had presented with an erratic pulse. The lab work looked different, too...

He drifted off then, to confused dreams interrupted some unknown time later by the persistent squealing of his pager.

He was needed in room 4712. STAT.

**~+~+~+~**

The doctor arrived at the same moment as two orderlies pulling a stretcher. By this time, Buck was coming around, muttering and making sporadic attempts to sit up. He was so weak that it didn’t take much for Chris to restrain him.

Dr. Baker knelt next to Wilmington, checking his pulse and respiration. He grinned. “Told you you needed to get something to eat,” he scolded gently. He beckoned for the orderlies to place the downed man on the stretcher. “Take him down to ER.”

“I don’t need--“ Buck started faintly.

“Shut up, Buck,” Chris snapped. The harsh lines that had been marring his face since the call from AD Travis that afternoon had eased since finding his friends and hearing both of them speak. Chris looked directly at the doctor. “What’s wrong with them?”

Baker grinned. “You must be Chris Larabee. I’m Dr. Baker. Your friend Dr. Murray at Four Corners mentioned you’d probably be turning up soon.”

“You’re busted...Chris,” Buck wheezed.

“Hey, I’m not the one lying on a floor,” Chris returned, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. He eyed the doctor again. “Well?”

“I would guess Mr. Wilmington here is suffering from mild dehydration, exhaustion, and probably hypoglycemia. But we really need to get him down to ER to check him out. Depending on what his tests show, we’ll either hook him up to an IV for some fluids for a couple of hours, and then send him home for some rest, or check him in for the night.”

“I’m not--“ Buck started.

“Oh yes, you will,” Chris cut him off. “I’m going with you.” He looked over at Vin. With a flicker of an eyelid the sharpshooter assured his friend he’d stay with Ezra. Standish had slipped back to sleep, apparently not even really noticing who all had been in the room with him. Dr. Baker studied the monitors, spoke with the nurse in low tones and then turned to follow the stretcher, walking into one of the uniformed officers. He stepped back and looked at Chris.

Once the two officers had realized no one was in immediate danger, they had holstered their guns. The oldest one--a grizzled veteran--nodded at Chris. “Larabee.”

“Sgt. Hamilton,” Chris returned. He cocked his head. “What’re you doing here, Sergeant?”

“We’ve been assigned as protection for Agents Wilmington and Standish,” the older man returned smartly.

Chris raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you have? Who made that assignment?”

“The Watch Commander,” Hamilton returned. There was something in his face that said he didn’t like Chris much, or the assignment either. His eyes fell on Buck and his lips twisted in a scornful gesture.

Chris hesitated. He looked at the younger officer. “Who might you be?”

“Tim Patton, sir.” Hamilton’s partner couldn’t have been more than six months out of the Academy. He was so young you could practically smell the green on him. And from the look of hero-worship Chris suspected he’d heard stories of Larabee and Wilmington and their career in Denver’s Major Crimes Unit. _‘Obviously didn’t hear any stories from Hamilton or he’d have a different look on his face.’_

Aloud, Chris said, “Patton, you stand guard outside this room.” He nodded toward Vin. “Agent Tanner is in charge. You talk to him if you have any questions.”

“Now, wait a second--“ Hamilton started.

Chris just looked at him and the older officer fell silent. “Hamilton, you’re with me.” His voice said there wasn’t room for argument. 

**~+~+~+~ ******

Five minutes after everyone left Ezra’s room the nurse walked back in again, carrying a cup in each hand. She placed one on the bedside table. “He ruptured a blood vessel in his throat,” she told Vin. “That with the oxygen is going to make his throat mighty sore. But he can’t have any liquids by mouth yet. If he wakes up again see if you can get him to eat a few ice chips.” The she handed the other cup to Vin. It was coffee, hot and strong, and he accepted it gratefully. “You look like you could use this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vin said thankfully, taking a sip. “Been a long day.” He waved his hand around at the bank of monitors. “What’s wrong with Ezra, ‘zactly?”

“He was severely dehydrated when he came in, electrolyte imbalance. That’s why the IVs in both arms. According to your other friend he hasn’t been able to keep anything down for three days. Ruptured a blood vessel--apparently from the constant vomiting--that could have been bad but they cauterized it down in ER.” She frowned. “He’s been showing an erratic heartbeat--it’ll speed up and then drop to way below normal, but he’s been stable for the last couple of hours. He’s on quite a bit of pain medication and he’s sedated, so when he wakes up again he may or may not make any sense.” She smiled. The smile took years off her face and Vin was suddenly reminded of his friend Nettie Wells. “My name’s Mrs. Dunn,” she winked. “But I let boys with beautiful blue eyes call me Dixie.” The smile widened at Vin’s blush and she started for the door. “Just hit the call button if you need anything.”

**~+~+~+~**

Chris stood in a corner of the exam room, careful to keep out of the way of Dr. Baker and the two nurses who were tending to Buck. He had learned a long time ago that he’d be evicted from a hospital room if medical personnel thought he was interfering; not even the “Larabee Death Glare” as his men teasingly called it would change that. He had no intention of letting Buck out of his sight. The icy fear that had gripped him when Buck had passed out in Ezra’s room eased a little as he heard his friend haltingly answering the doctor’s questions. He winced as it took the nurse three or four tries to hit a vein for a blood sample, and then to get an IV started. “You’re not quite as dehydrated as Mr. Standish, but you’re pretty parched,” Baker informed him.

“Least you’re not gonna...do one of those cut-down...things,” Buck said weakly.

“Nope,” Baker responded. “Close though.” He was listening to Buck’s chest, then took the stethoscope from his ears and looked at the nurses. “Tell the lab I need those results STAT. Keep the fluids going, and let’s get him on 2 liters of 02 to start via nasal canula. And get him on a cardiac monitor.”

Chris stiffened at the last words. Baker went on, to Buck this time, “How’s that headache?”

“How’d...you know?”

“Cause I’m the doctor,” Baker grinned. “We’ll get you something for it. It’ll make you sleepy, too, which is a plus. You need to rest, so just relax and let the medication do the work, okay?”

Buck’s eyes shifted until he could see Chris. Larabee nodded at him, stepping close to the table now that there was some room. “Go to sleep, Buck. Everything’s under control.”

Buck’s midnight-blue eyes stayed glued to his for a moment, then he nodded slightly and his eyelids flickered closed.

The nurse glued the circular patches to Buck’s chest. Baker fiddled with a knob on one of the machines and a screen above the bed flickered on, with a series of green lines and blips on it. He watched the screen for a few minutes and then nodded, stepping away from the bed and beckoning Chris to follow.

“How is he?” Chris asked anxiously.

“I think he’ll be fine. As I thought, he’s just dehydrated and exhausted. He wouldn’t leave Mr. Standish after he got here, not even to get something to eat. I’ll know more after we get his blood work back from the lab, and I think we should admit him for the night--or what’s left of the night--but he should be feeling a lot better in a few hours.”

Chris nodded, feeling relief course through him. He thought of something and frowned. “Something wrong with his heart?”

Baker shook his head. “Not as far as I can tell...but Mr. Standish has had a very erratic heartbeat since he’s been admitted. Since they supposedly were exposed to the same toxin I thought I should take the precaution. If his heart stays stable for a couple of hours we’ll take him off of it.”

Chris nodded again. “How’s Ezra doin’?”

“Well, that’s a somewhat different situation.” Baker frowned. “He’s stable at the moment, but his blood work was very unusual. I treated some other people who’d eaten at that restaurant and their blood work didn’t look anything like his. And as I said, he’s had an erratic heartbeat, which is not characteristic of the toxin that was reported in that shellfish.” He shrugged. “He might be just exceptionally sensitive to it, he might have been getting a virus or something beforehand--Mr. Wilmington said he was pretty run-down--or we might be dealing with something else. Right now we’re treating his symptoms--the dehydration, the pain, and an electrolyte imbalance--and we’ll just have to see how he goes on.” He smiled at Chris’ concerned look. “I wouldn’t worry too much--he’s stabilized over the last couple of hours.” Then he frowned in turn. “What’s the reasoning behind having police guards?”

Chris hesitated. “Possibility of a threat,” he finally said. “I’m guessing that’s why our boss sent them over. Can you put Buck in the same room with Ezra?”

Baker made a face. “You must not have looked around that room--we don’t have double rooms in this hospital. When they remodeled last year they made all the rooms singles. I can talk to Admitting--see if they can put him next door or across the hall from Mr. Standish.” A frown crossed his face. “How much risk is there of trouble?”

Chris smiled, a cold, feral smile. “That’s my job to worry about. Is there going to be any problem with someone stayin’ with them at all times?” His voice implied there had better not be.

Baker raised his hands in surrender. “From what I understand from Dr. Murray, it wouldn’t do me any good to say there was a problem,” he grinned. “But in all actuality, I wouldn’t have a problem with it anyway. And I’ll make sure the floor nurses know not to say anything. But I would like you to talk to our Security...if there’s a threat they need to be involved in planning how to address it.”

Chris nodded. “No problem.”

 

**Part 11**

Robert Orlowski had been born in a tiny Polish “pocket neighborhood” in Chicago forty-eight years ago. He had always been a big boy, bigger than the other kids in the neighborhood who called him “Bolo” and came to him for help when bullies from other neighborhoods crossed the invisible lines that divided Chicago’s South Side.

By the time he was twelve, Bolo had discovered his talent and his love: making things blow up. He was good at it. Joining the Marine Corps at seventeen had honed this talent. When he had got out of the Corps ten years later, it had taken just a few words in the right ears, and Bolo Orlowski had a job for life. 

He was semi-retired now--by which he meant he had enough money to live on and no real challenges in mind. He only took jobs if they appealed to his artistic sense, or if they were for old friends, or if they were especially lucrative.

The job for Marcus Hoyt met all of his criteria. Bolo was on a plane within two hours of the phone call from his old friend, and by eleven o’clock that evening he was in a nondescript rental car outside a converted warehouse which housed the loft apartment of ATF Agents Buck Wilmington and JD Dunne. Dunne, Bolo understood, was out of town, and wasn’t the target anyway. No, the challenge here was to set a bomb to take out only one person: Buck Wilmington.

Bolo averted his eyes as a Denver PD patrol car drove slowly past the building. The car turned left at the stop sign. Bolo got out of the car, reaching for the white jacket and bags of fragrant Chinese food in the back seat. The jacket was his but he’d purchased the food two blocks away at a busy eatery called the Oriental Pearl. Carrying the bags, he briskly trotted up the steps to the entrance door. It was one of those where you had to be buzzed in; that wasn’t usually a problem. He just randomly hit buttons until someone released the lock. He grinned. Someone was always waiting on someone.

Once in the vestibule he looked at mailboxes until he saw the listing for B. Wilmington/JD Dunne. _‘Idiot. You’d think Feds would be a little more careful with their own security.’_

He started for the stairs. He had fifteen minutes before the patrol car would make another round in front of the building.

Plenty of time.

**~+~+~+~**

Vin shifted his lanky body in the uncomfortable chair. He had long ago decided that hospitals deliberately purchased chairs specially designed to be unforgiving to the spinal cord.

A faint sound came from the still figure in the bed. Vin straightened up, reaching over to cover Ezra’s hand with his own, careful not to disturb the IV line. “Ezra? You hear me?”

His friend stirred, one hand coming up to swipe fretfully at the oxygen tube. Vin had been expecting that and caught the errant hand, detangling the IV. “Com’n Ez, wake up.”

Thick eyelashes fluttered on pale cheekbones. Finally two clouded green eyes opened, taking in the surroundings blankly before focusing on Vin. “Mr. Tanner.” The voice was faint, blurred with sleep and drugs. “Have you returned so soon from your jaunt in the wilds?”

Vin felt a slow smile cross his face. “Hey, Pard. You got more tubes stuck in you than one of those kiddie playgrounds at McDonalds.”

“What...an analogy,” Ezra gasped. He tried to raise one hand toward his throat, only to stare at the dangling IV tubing. “Dear Lord...is there no inch of my flesh these miscreants... haven’t pierced with their savage needles?” He coughed painfully.

Vin reached for the cup of ice chips next to the bed. He dug a few out with the spoon and offered them to Ezra. “Here. Nurse said your throat would hurt.”

Ezra accepted, sucking the ice greedily. “My throat...isn’t the only...thing.” He closed his eyes. “So, how was your pursuit of piscatory excellence?”

“Y’know, Ez...if you wouldn’t use them ten dollar words you might not need to have that oxygen tube stuck up your nose.”

“Touché.” Ezra coughed. “Could I trouble you for...some water?”

“Sorry, Pard. Nurse says you have to stick to ice chips for awhile yet.” Vin offered him another spoonful. 

Ezra nodded. “Would it be...terribly cliche for me...to ask what happened to bring me to...this den of vampires masquerading...” he trailed off, breathing deeply from the nasal canula.

“Think you’d better stop talking for awhile.” Vin glanced up at the monitors above Ezra’s head. Unfortunately, since joining Team Seven, he’d spent enough time in hospitals--as both visitor and patient--that he knew which one was the “pulse-ox” and that Ezra’s reading was too low. “Looks like that little food poisoning bug was too much for you.”

Ezra nodded slightly. A frown creased his forehead and he opened his eyes and looked around the room. “Mr. Wilmington?”

“He’ll be okay,” Vin soothed. “Chris is with him.” He saw the battle waging on Ezra’s face and forestalled any more questions. “Go back to sleep, Ez. I’ll tell ya all about it in the mornin’.”

**~+~+~+~**

7:30 am

As early morning light flooded Buck’s fourth-floor hospital room, Chris slowly stood up from the chair next to the bed. He stretched muscles protesting from too much sitting and surveyed his friend with an anxiety he’d never have allowed to cross his face had Buck been awake to see it. 

He walked over to the window and stared out at the hospital grounds below. A white marble statue surrounded by flowering plants was directly in front of the main entrance. The helipad was to the west, past a parking lot. Farther on, pathways studded with benches meandered around huge trees.

“Chris?”

Larabee turned at the sound of his name. Buck’s dark blue eyes were open, watching him. “Hey. You’re awake. How’re you feeling?” Chris walked back to the side of the bed.

Buck didn’t answer. He looked around the room, then back at Chris with an alarmed expression on his face. “Ezra?” He started to sit up.

Chris put a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. “He’s okay. Doin’ better. Vin said he woke up for a few minutes around four this morning.”

Buck grinned. “That sounds like his timing.” The grin vanished. “What’re you doin’ here, Pard? You and Junior get tired of tryin’ to catch Old Pete?”

Larabee smiled. Old Pete was their nickname for the giant catfish supposedly lurking in the depths of the lake in Wyoming. “Think Old Pete is waiting for you,” he said easily.

Buck shook his head. “Why’d you come back so early?” He frowned. “How’d you even know where we were?”

“Well, not ‘cause you called me,” Chris couldn’t resist pointing out. He sighed. “Hoyt was ROR’d two days ago.”

“Son of a --“

“Yeah. And of course, the first thing he did was bail out his gang. Then someone in Travis’ office got a tip that Hoyt knew the identities of the two undercover ATF agents who’d brought him down. Judge thought you were with us, but he couldn’t get ‘hold of Ezra, so he called me at the cabin.”

Buck’s eyes widened. A look of understanding crossed his face. “Then you couldn’t reach either of us,” he finished quietly. “Shit, Chris, I’m sorry. I should of called you.”

“Yeah. You should have.” Chris took a deep breath. “But I shouldn’t have thrown you into a wall, either.”

“Is that what happened?” Buck managed a grin. “I don’t remember much after you came bustin’ in to Ez’s room. How’d you figure out where we were?”

Chris sat down in the chair. “The Judge found out Ezra had been admitted here. Guess someone in the Denver PD finally thought to review the 911 tapes from yesterday. Vin and I were just gettin’ back into town when he called us.” 

Buck knew how nerve-wracking that long trip would have been for his friends. “Damn, Chris, I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I meant to call you...seemed like every time I thought to do it, I got sidetracked.” He paused. “What am I doing here, anyway?” He nodded at the IV in his arm. "You didn't throw me into a wall _that_ hard."

Chris managed a chuckle. "No. You passed out right after we got here. Dehydration, low blood sugar--basic exhaustion. Milder version of what's wrong with Ez. What happened anyway? Thought you said you were feelin' better?"

"I was. Thought Ezra would start improvin', too. But when I called him yesterday he couldn't even talk. I just grabbed some clothes and ran to the truck." Buck shook his head. "Didn't get my watch or my cell, even. Hell, I'm not even sure I locked the door behind me. When I got there..." Buck's eyes dimmed with the memory. "Hell, Chris, he was puking up blood. I didn't know what was wrong with him. You sure he's gonna be okay?"

Chris nodded reassuringly. "Doctor says he's doing fine. He's been stable for almost six hours and they took out one of the IVs. It was close, though, Buck. If you hadn't got him here when you did..."

Buck closed his eyes. "So when do I get out of here?"

"Around noon, probably. They want to make sure you can keep down some breakfast before they take out the IV." Chris changed the subject. "Guess who's guarding your door? Our old buddy Hamilton from the Denver PD."

Buck snorted. "Bet the prick loves that assignment. Can't believe they never got rid of him." His eyes snapped open, startled. "Why's anyone guardin' my door?"

"Well, figure it out," Chris drawled. "If Hoyt knows who you and Ez are, you're both in danger. And we're kinda short-handed at the moment, remember?"

"You didn't call JD, did ya, Chris?" Buck asked, alarmed. "No reason to ruin his vacation--"

"No, I haven't called him, or Nathan, or Josiah...yet." Chris steeled himself for what he knew was coming. "And I won't, but you have to stick with Vin or me. When they let you out of here, you're going to my place until Hoyt's back in custody."

 

**Part 12**

Noon

“This is not...fair,” Ezra groaned, turning restlessly to one side. His various tubes and wires tangled around each other. 

Patiently, as he had been doing all morning, Vin straightened out the tangle and smoothed the blankets up over the miserable undercover agent. “Want ta' try some more water?” he asked gently. Glancing over at the rolling table, he added, “or apple juice?”

Ezra just groaned again and buried his sweaty face in the pillows. Vin sighed and eased back into the chair. He couldn’t blame Ezra. The hospital staff had started him on small amounts of liquids around eight that morning. The first few sips of diluted apple juice had gone down well, but within a half-hour Ezra was plagued again by the violent nausea and vomiting. The vomiting continued long after the scant contents of his stomach had been emptied in painful dry heaves. Concerned that the blood vessel in his throat would re-open, the hospital staff increased the IV fluids and the anti-nausea drugs, but still encouraged him to take in fluids orally. After a couple of hours of this, whatever energy Ezra had managed to recover through the night had been exhausted, and he curled up in his bed, gray-faced and sweating.

Vin, who was a lot like Ezra in a lot of ways, understood that the Southerner was humiliated at having others see him in his weakened condition. Ezra was like a wild animal when he was sick, preferring to crawl into his den with no one bothering him until he recovered. Vin was much the same way. Unfortunately, the worse Ezra felt, the more the hospital staff poked and prodded him, causing him to retreat further and further behind his poker mask.

There was a light tap on the door and it swung open to admit the blond-haired Dr. Baker, followed by Chris. The doctor had a clipboard in his hands and was studying it with a frown. Chris looked worn out, although he had apparently found a chance to run down to his truck for a change of clothes. 

“Where’s Bucklin?” Vin asked.

“Changing.” Chris cocked his head at the doctor. “Dr. Baker here just discharged him.”

There was a groan from the huddled pile of misery in the bed. “Unfair,” Ezra gasped. “Mr. Wilmington consumed...double the amount of that Epicurean disaster than I did...”

“There’s no telling the way an individual will react to a toxin,” Baker said. He was still frowning at the chart, but he finally put it down on the foot of the bed. “Not feeling very well, are you, Mr. Standish?”

“Right now I’m wishing...that Mr. Larabee would follow through on his frequently-expressed...intention to shoot me.”

Baker chuckled at the mock-glare Larabee threw at his patient. “You’ve had a rough morning. Your body needs rest. I’m going to stop the PO fluids for now and give you a sedative. We’ll try again in a couple of hours to get you to drink something.”

Ezra sighed. “Fine.”

Baker raised his eyebrows. “Fine? Now I know you aren’t feeling well. Dr. Murray warned me you’d be trying to sneak out of the hospital by now.”

“If he could stand up, he would be,” Chris quipped.

“I understand you two were fishing up in Wyoming?” Baker asked Chris and Vin. “Catch anything?”

“Caught a mess o’ trout,” Vin answered.

“I love fresh trout,” Baker admitted.

“Vin’s got a great way of cookin’ it, fried up with onions and garlic and some salt pork--“ Chris stopped as he was pinioned by an emerald glare from the bed. He grinned. “Sorry, Ezra,” he apologized.

Ezra closed his eyes. “Mr. Larabee. Mr.Tanner. When I recover from this...ailment...I have every intention of strangling both of you...with my bare hands.”

Both his teammates grinned and the doctor laughed outright. “Well, I’d better do my part so that you can get back on your feet to do that,” he commented, picking up the clipboard. He caught Chris’ eye, then Vin’s. “Gentlemen, if I might see you outside?”

“Oh, of course. Discuss my case behind closed doors,” Ezra grumbled. “I am, after all, only the patient here.”

Vin patted his leg through the blanket. “Be right back, Pard.”

“The nurse will be in with that sedative,” Baker said. He looked inquiringly at his patient. “You aren’t going to protest?”

Ezra shook his head. “Right now, Sir...you could kill me...and I’d not only thank you, I’d leave you all my worldly goods.”

“Hmm, tempting offer. But killing patients wreaks havoc on my malpractice insurance,” the doctor quipped. He smiled sympathetically. “Hang in there, Mr. Standish, you should start to feel better soon.”

“Be good,” Chris ordered, following the doctor and Vin out the door. Once it had swung closed, he eyed the doctor steadily. “What’s wrong?”

Baker took a deep breath. “I’m not exactly sure,” he admitted. “He should be responding better than he is.” He frowned. “And his bloodwork keeps coming back with abnormalities. Significantly different than Mr. Wilmington’s results, or the results of anyone else who has been treated for this toxin.”

“What’s that mean?” Vin asked.

His concern was mirrored on Chris’ face. “Doctor?”

“I’m going to knock him out for awhile, let his body get a chance to rest,” Baker said slowly. “That may be all that’s needed...but in the meantime, I want to run some more tests. We might be dealing with something more than just food poisoning here.”

**~+~+~+~**

Buck eased himself down into the chair beside the bed. His muscles ached with fatigue, but he was afraid if he lay back down in the bed someone would take it in their head to keep him in the hospital. Bad enough Chris was insisting that he go to the ranch instead of his own place.

He reached over and picked up the newspaper a volunteer had brought by that morning. Chris had obviously thumbed through it but not read it carefully; the folds were still intact. Buck glanced at the front page then leafed through to the second section, the “City/State” section.

The headline blared up at him: **LOCAL ENTREPENEUR ARRAIGNED ON FEDERAL WEAPONS CHARGES.** Under the two-column heading was a large black and white photo, obviously from stock footage. 

“Oh, shit,” Buck breathed. The picture had been taken at some large social event. Marcus Hoyt, resplendent in black-tie, beamed at the camera, his arm possessively around the slender shoulders of the young woman with him.  
The caption read _“Marcus Hoyt and his niece Sarah Bryant at last month’s Jubilee Ball to benefit AIDS research.”_

_‘Sarah.’_

The newspaper dropped from nerveless fingers as his mind flashed back...

_Flahback_

~~Hoyt had invited “Edward Steen” to join him for a day of spring skiing at his lodge at Keystone. Surprisingly, he’d also made a point of requesting Steen’s bodyguard/assistant, “Brian Jakes”, come along. “He don’t usually seem to notice I exist,” Buck had commented on the drive.

It was a small party, less than a dozen people. Most of them were gathered around the massive stone fireplace in the living room when Buck and Ezra arrived. Hoyt immediately offered hot buttered rum. Ezra raised an eyebrow and commented he usually preferred his apris-ski drinks to be just that.

Buck wandered out onto the deck that surrounded three sides of the lodge. He leaned against the cedar railing and stared at the mountain towering above.

“Mr. Jakes?”

He turned at the hesitant feminine voice. “Sarah!” he gasped, then quickly recovered himself. “Ms. Bryant, I mean.” He flashed his best grin. “Beg your pardon for bein’ so forward.”

She laughed. _‘Oh, hell, she even laughs like Sarah,’_ Buck despaired. 

Sarah Bryant was wearing a royal blue sweater with cream ski pants. A cream-colored parka was slung over her shoulders. Buck remembered the silk blouse he’d “helped” Adam pick out for his mama that last Christmas. It had been just that shade of blue...

“You’re staring at me, Mr. Jakes.” Dimples deepened as she smiled. “Do I have dirt on my nose, or something?”

Buck had to smile. “No way. I was just...admirin’ your sweater.”

“I bought it in Switzerland last year. It’s my favorite color,” she explained.

“I know,” Buck said, then shook his head. “I mean--“

She ignored his discomfiture as she came closer to him. “I’m glad you came.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re the reason I got an invitation?”

She tilted her head to one side and smiled a little. “I enjoyed our talk at the party the other night. So, do you ski?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” _‘This is a mistake,’_ Buck thought. He indicated the mountain behind them. “Care to join me on the run, Ms. Bryant?”

“Only if you call me Sarah,” she pouted. “Ms. Bryant makes me sound like an old maid schoolteacher.”

“An’ you surely aren’t that...Sarah.” Buck took a deep breath. “I’m...Brian.”

She smiled again. “I know.”

 

The afternoon was wonderful. By accident or design, they were separated from the rest of the party most of the day. Buck was uneasy when he realized it had been hours since he’d seen Ezra. “It’s gettin’ late,” he told Sarah, glancing at the setting sun. “I’d better go track down Edward. He’s got some shin-dig tonight.”

“The cocktail party at the Regency,” Sarah said knowingly. “Uncle Marcus said he was inviting him.” She hesitated. “Do you have to go, too?” She rushed on before he could say anything, “Because I hate cocktail parties...so crowded and smoky...I--“ she turned pink. “I was wondering if you and I could have dinner.”

Buck was wrapped in the warmth of her smile. He could hear himself saying, “I reckon we could manage that.”

 

Buck walked out into the living room of the penthouse, wondering--not for the first time--who the hell decorated a room in white leather, smoked glass and chrome. Ezra was standing at the windows, staring out at the lights. Only one small lamp was turned on and the room was full of shadows.

“You’re goin’ to be late for your party.”

“And you don’t want to be tardy for your dinner engagement.”

It was the first thing Ezra had said since Buck had told him about his dinner plans on the drive back from Keystone. Wilmington walked over to the wet bar and poured himself a drink. “You goin’ to be okay on your own?”

“I’m quite sure I can manage. It’s you I am concerned about.”

Buck flushed. “Ez--“

“This is not a good idea, Mr. Wilmington.”

Buck slammed the glass down. “Damn, Ezra, we have a job to do, remember? How can it hurt getting close to Hoyt’s niece?”

Ezra turned to look at him. “Because you aren’t getting close to her because of who she is, Mr. Wilmington, but because of who she isn’t.”

Anger rolled through Buck. “I know what I’m doin’,” he snapped. “If gettin’ close to her gets us some information--“

“That might be Brian Jakes’ excuse,” Ezra said softly. He turned back to the windows and Buck could barely hear his words. “But you aren’t Brian Jakes. And the Buck Wilmington I know couldn’t 'use' any woman...much less one that so strongly resembles someone he cared for so deeply.”

The anger drained away from Buck. “I know she’s not Sarah,” he sighed.

“Remember that, Buck. Remember who she isn’t. And...remember who you are.”

_End Flashback_

“Buck?”

Wilmington looked up, startled. Vin was standing in the open doorway of his room, pushing a wheelchair in front of him. Tanner was staring at him in concern. “You ready, Pard?”

Buck took a deep breath. He picked up the newspaper and rolled it tightly, hiding the photograph. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s get out of here


	3. THIRD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things keep getting worse for Team Seven. JD and Nathan are trapped in Dallas, trying to get home. Ezra comes up with a way to get out of the hospital. No one still knows where Josiah is. And a quick trip to Buck's apartment ends in tragedy for two of the Seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Lauren Murray was created by Heather F. and I'm pretty sure I remember getting her permission before I used her. All other original characters are products of my imagination.
> 
> Please note: Although these two series are being posted on AO3 at the same times, there is no connection between what happens in Trinity and what happens in Domino Domino. At the time I started Trinity, I hadn't seen all the canon episodes, and there was no such thing as the ATF Bible, so certain things that occur in Trinity depart from the later-accepted ATF canon.

Chris stood in the corner of the room and watched as Ezra fought the sedative flooding through his system. _‘Damn stubborn cuss,’ he thought. ‘Can’t surrender control even when he’s miserable.’_

But in that respect Ezra wasn't much different from his teammates. Most of the other people in the ATF office couldn't figure out how Team Seven managed to keep from killing each other, much less work together effectively. But they did work together--very effectively--enough to be nicknamed (supposedly behind their backs) the "Magnificent Seven." The members--each with their own emotional baggage--had come together to form something more than just the sum of their parts.

Ezra Standish, the undercover agent with the unstable childhood who'd been betrayed and framed by his own mentor in the FBI. 

Vin Tanner, modern day bounty hunter turned US Marshal turned ATF sharpshooter, fighting to triumph over dyslexia and a childhood spent in foster homes and on the streets. Still trying to live up to the name his mother had told him was his greatest treasure.

JD Dunne, fighting to be accepted as a man one minute and desperate for the approval and security he'd lost with his mother's death the next.

Josiah Sanchez, son of a hellfire-and-damnation minister; a former hippie, former anthropologist, former preacher--he'd once made the comment he'd seen justice from every angle and found it wanting.

Nathan Jackson, whose dreams of medical school had been unfulfilled due to lack of funds and family responsibilities. He carried the pain and bitterness of his mother's suicide deep in his heart.

And then there was Buck. Devil-may-care charmer carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but hidden only so that a few could see.

And Chris himself.

He never said it. He hated even to admit it, but Chris knew the secret to his Team's success. They were more than a team. 

They were a family.

And no matter what they might say or do to each other, they faced the world with a united front.

Chris stood silently in the corner and watched as Ezra finally succumbed to sleep.

~+~+~+~

"Mind taking me by my place before we head out to Chris's"? Buck broke the silence which had existed since he and Vin had left the hospital. "I need to get some clothes an' things if I'm goin' to be under house arrest."

Vin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Better than bein' dead," he commented, signaling for a turn that would take him toward Buck's neighborhood.

Buck made a noise that was halfway between a snort and a laugh. "Yeah, I reckon it is at that."

Vin glanced at him again. There was a reason he'd talked Chris into letting him take Buck to the ranch while Chris remained at the hospital. He took a deep breath. "Bucklin, I need to know somethin'."

Buck seemed to brace himself. "What?"

Vin stared straight ahead at the car in front of them. Now that the moment had come he wasn't really sure he wanted to know the truth. "Is the reason you backed out of goin' to Wyoming...'cause I was going?"

Buck whipped his head around to stare at him. "What?" After a second, he closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "Shit. Oh, no, Vin. Hell, I'm sorry. I never even thought 'bout that--why would it make a difference? Hell, I'm the one that invited ya!"

"Thought maybe you'd changed your mind," Vin said quietly. "Chris said nobody'd ever been up there but the two of you."

"Vin, ya gotta believe me. You goin' along had nothin' to do with me not going."

Vin managed a smile. "That's what Chris said. Those very words, even."

"Yeah. Well, he knows me pretty well." Buck's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Too well, sometimes."

Silence stretched between them again. Vin stopped the truck at a red light. "So?" he said finally.

Buck sighed. He looked down at the newspaper he'd been twisting in his hands since they'd left the hospital. With a sudden movement he flipped it open.

Vin could see the picture enough to tell it was Marcus Hoyt with some young woman. Buck was staring down at the paper. "Hoyt had--has a niece," he said abruptly.

The light turned green. Vin nudged the accelerator. "So?" he prodded.

"She was here, visiting...the whole time Ez and I were undercover." Buck was speaking with difficulty. "She...we..." he sighed again. "We got to be more than friends," he said finally.

Knowing Buck and his propensity for the ladies, that was not a big surprise. Vin couldn't figure out why his friend was so upset about it. "You were undercover," he pointed out.

Buck laughed harshly. "Yeah. And I told myself that I needed to get close to her, see if she knew anything...get information about Hoyt's business." He leaned his head back. "Damn Vin, she's just a kid. No older than JD. And I used her. And she--" he stopped abruptly.

Vin frowned. 'That don't sound right.' "You don't use people, Bucklin," he pointed out. "And...you were doin' your job."

Buck snorted. "Yeah. My job. An' I'll just bet that makes her feel a whole lot better when she finds out the truth."

Vin didn't know what to say to him. They pulled up in front of Buck's building, and Vin left Buck in the truck while he got out to approach the squad car parked in front. "Hey," he said, flashing his ID for the officer. "Any trouble?"

The uniformed cop shook his head. "Been quiet since I came on at six."

Vin put his wallet back in his jeans pocket and nodded for Buck to get out of the truck. "We're goin' up to Agent Wilmington's apartment for a few minutes. You need to take a break?"

"Well, I could go for some coffee, now that you mention it." The officer turned the key in the ignition. "I'll be back in ten."

Vin nodded and jogged to catch up to Buck, who was already in the front entrance.

The loft apartment was actually a little neater than usual. For a change, there weren't any clothes strewn on the living room furniture and it looked like someone had vacuumed in recent memory. Vin never thought too much about Buck and JD's housekeeping (or lack of same) although Ezra had nicknamed the place the CDC and commented he had to get his shots updated every time they played poker there.

Buck headed for the stairs to his loft bedroom. "Help yourself to somethin' to drink. But I think all there is is Seven Up." 

"That's okay." Vin started looking in the sofa cushions for the cordless phone. "Gotta call Chris an' tell him where we are."

Buck reached the top of the stairs and immediately had to sit down on the unmade bed. 'Whoa,' he thought, shutting his eyes against a wave of dizziness. He could hear Vin downstairs talking to Chris. "How's Ez?" he called when Vin hung up, reaching under the bed for his duffel bag. He shakily got to his feet and started for the closet.

"Sleepin'...finally," he heard Vin yell back.

Buck reached out to pull the closet door open. Too late he saw the telltale twisted red, black and yellow wires. In one heart-stopping minute he recognized them for what they were.

He stumbled back several steps. "VIN!"

There was a burst of searing light, then a horrible roaring noise. Buck's body was thrown up into the air.

He blacked out before he felt the pain.

 

Part 14

Vin clambered to his hands and knees and stayed there, swaying. His ears were ringing and his head ached with a horrible pulsing throb that made him sick to his stomach. Supporting himself on one hand, he wiped the other over his brow, feeling the warm stickiness of his own blood on his fingers. 

‘What the hell--‘ 

He forced open eyes that felt full of grit. The air around him was thick with grayish-brown dust. It stung his eyes, caught at his throat.

Slowly, memory seeped back. He was at Buck’s apartment. He’d been on the phone to Chris...then Buck had yelled his name--

‘Buck!’

He tried to rise to his feet and was forced back down by a wave of dizziness. Mindlessly, he crawled on hands and knees to the staircase.

The top half of the staircase was gone.

The loft wasn’t there anymore.

He could see the leaden Denver skies through a huge, gaping hole where the wall and ceiling of Buck’s bedroom used to be.

"Buck!" Vin choked out. His throat screamed in protest. He coughed and tried again. "BUCK! Answer me!"

Nothing.

A darker shadow against the dust moved. By instinct Vin moved toward it, staggering forward like a drunk, clinging to walls and battered furniture. He moved around the sectional sofa. Behind that had once been a wall of windows, arched glass set into the stone walls.

The glass was gone now, no doubt lying four stories below in a glittering rain of death.

Buck was between the sofa and the windows, lying in a boneless pile, arms and legs sprawled anywhere, blood pooling underneath his body.

"Oh, damn, Buck." Vin fell to his knees beside his friend, afraid to touch him, afraid to know, afraid not to know. He hesitantly bent low over the still body, two fingers desperately pressed into the side of the bloody neck. "Come on Buck...I know you aren’t dead...you can't be. Give me a sign here..."

There was a tiny flutter underneath his fingers; Buck's faint breathing cooled his cheek. "That's it, Pard...you hang in there. You hear me, Bucklin? You hang on!"

He couldn't pull the battered body close to him as much as he wanted to hold the bigger man back from the shadow of death that was lurking to claim him. Any movement could be dangerous...fatal. Vin clasped Buck's hand tightly in both of his, trying to force life into their joined clasp. His ears still ringing from the blast, he couldn't hear sirens but he knew help must be approaching. He just had to keep Buck alive until it got here.

He knelt close to his friend, ignoring Buck's blood soaking into the knees of his own jeans.

'Hang in there. Just hang in there...'

~+~+~+~

Chris Larabee woke, startled. Sitting up straighter in the uncomfortable chair, he quickly checked Ezra, thinking perhaps the undercover agent had made some sound. Ezra had slept like the dead for hours, barely moving. As Chris watched, Standish’s head moved a little against the pillow but he showed no other signs of waking.

Chris sighed and stretched, standing to work out the kinks in his back. The room was shadowy and chilly. The one window faced north and the sky, which had been heavy with storm clouds all day, was darkening with the approach of evening. 

Suddenly alarmed, Chris checked his watch. Almost five p.m. Anxiety churned his stomach. ‘Buck. Vin. Where the hell are they?’ He’d last heard from his two friends when Vin had called from Buck’s apartment around one-thirty. ‘They should have been to the ranch hours ago. Vin should have called.’

As he reached for the bedside telephone to call his home, it rang. Chris grabbed the receiver. “Larabee!” he snapped.

“Chris.”

Chills cascaded down Chris’ back. Icy fear clenched his bowels. He knew, without Vin having to say more than that one word, that something was terribly wrong. “Vin, where are you?”

“At University Medical Center. The Trauma Unit--“

“You hurt?” Chris interrupted.

“Not me.” Tanner’s voice broke. “Chris, get over here right now. It’s Buck.” Chris could hear him take a ragged breath over the phone. “Chris...there was a bomb in his apartment.”

Bomb.

Chris’ mind slammed to a screeching halt. The pale beige walls of the hospital room disappeared, to be replaced by the vision that for so long had haunted his thoughts. Darkness, and police cars...the burned out hulk of his pickup...Sarah and Adam...dead.

‘Not Buck. God, please, no. Not Buck.’

He became aware that Tanner’s voice was still talking in his ear but he hadn’t heard anything after that word “bomb.” “Vin?” he said, his tone pleading, recognizing it for what it was. ‘Tell me he’s okay...tell me it’s all right...’

Tanner’s voice was rough with fear and urgent as he said “Chris. Hurry. Just...hurry!”

 

Part 15

Chris dropped the phone. Turning on his heel, he strode to the door and flung it open. The chair outside the door was empty, but looking down the hall he saw two uniformed policemen standing by the nurses station. They were talking with two other men whom Chris recognized. The older one, wearing a well-tailored suit and leaning on a cane, was David Montgomery. Montgomery had been a decorated ATF field agent until a fall while chasing a suspect had left him with a permanent back injury. He was now AD Travis’s assistant. The much younger man with him was a new agent, Bobby Fewell. He was temporarily assigned to Team Three and was a friend of JD’s.

All four men looked up as Chris charged down the hall. Montgomery stepped forward, leaning on his cane, to intercept him. “Chris,” he started, then stopped at the look on Chris’ face. “You know, don’t you?”

Chris nodded. He couldn’t seem to think. “Vin called me.” He didn’t even recognize the voice that came from his mouth as his own. “I’ve got to get...get over there.” He looked at the two policemen. “You’re on guard duty here?”

“Chris.” Montgomery said soothingly. “I'll stay here with Agent Standish. AD Travis has requested extra men from the Denver PD to augment security here, and Agent Fewell will drive you to University Medical Center.”

Chris nodded. He kept hearing Vin’s voice in his head, telling him to hurry. Then another thought interceded and he fixed a steely glare on Montgomery. “If Ezra wakes...you don’t tell him anything, understand? Nothing about Buck being...hurt.” The words stuck in his throat.

Montgomery looked nonplussed. “Surely,” he started.

Chris cut him off. “Nothing, damn it! I’ll tell him or Vin will tell him. You don’t tell him anything.”

“He’s going to notice you’re gone,” Montgomery pointed out reasonably. 

“Then you tell him I got called into the office, that I went to get something to eat...lie like a rug if you have to but you don’t tell him a damn thing about Buck. And don’t leave him alone!” Without waiting for a response, Chris turned on his heel and strode down the corridor to the elevators. He could hear the soft pad of athletic shoes as Fewell followed him.

It wasn’t until they were in an Agency car--Fewell had a motorcycle, Chris vaguely remembered--that he asked, icily, “What the hell happened?”

Fewell gulped. “I really don’t know. My team is over there--at JD’s--at the site, working with the Denver PD bomb squad. Team Four went to Agent Standish’s home to check for more bombs.”

“I don’t give a fuck what Team Three or Team Four are doing,” Chris forced the words through clenched teeth. “What the hell happened to Buck?”

“I don’t know,” the kid said miserably. “I was in Agent Montgomery’s office when he got the call. I didn’t hear details.”

Chris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Why University?” he asked. “It’s clear on the other side of town!”

Bobby Fewell took a deep breath. “It’s the best trauma facility in the whole state,” he said simply. He paused, his eyes on the traffic around him. “Agent Larabee...do you want me to call JD?”

‘JD. Shit. JD! How do I tell the kid his big brother is--

‘He’s not. He’ll be fine. Buck has to be fine.’

“No,” Chris said finally. He reached for his cellular phone, punching in the automatic dial buttons first for Josiah Sanchez, then Nathan Jackson. Neither man answered. Chris didn’t leave a voice mail message. Then he held the phone in his hand for several minutes, hesitating. He closed it without calling Dunne. “I’ll call him when I know...something more,” he said quietly.

Neither man spoke for the rest of the drive.

 

Fewell dropped Chris off at the Emergency entrance to the bustling University Medical Center. Chris came through the automatic doors and went straight to the central reception desk. "Buck Wilmington," he snapped. "Where is he?"

The receptionist didn't even look at her computer screen. "Are you Agent Larabee?"

Chris nodded tersely.

"Trauma Unit." She pointed. "Down that hall, make a left, go through the double doors." Chris was moving before the last words had left her mouth.

 

"Chris!"

Larabee heard the familiar voice the instant he crashed through the double doors. There was a large waiting area on the right. Vin was sitting there on a shapeless orange loveseat, but he stood up rather dizzily as Chris approached. The sharpshooter had a wide bandage across his forehead. His long hair was crusted with dried blood. Instead of the shirt he'd been wearing earlier, he was wearing a blue surgical-scrub, with more bandages peeking out from underneath the short sleeves. He was still wearing his jeans though. The denim was covered with irregular brownish-red splotches.

"Are you all right?" Chris demanded.

Vin nodded, in spite of the obvious visual evidence that he wasn't. His face was sheet-white, and bruise-like smudges were visible underneath his eyes. "Chris--" 

"Where's Buck?" Chris demanded. "How is he?"

"He's still back there." Vin waved toward another reception desk and behind it, another set of double doors with an imposing "No Admittance Beyond This Point" sign. "Nobody's said nothing to me yet. Chris--" his voice shook. "Chris...he wasn't breathin' when we got here. He stopped breathin' in the ambulance and...and they bagged him all the way in."

"Oh, God--" Chris looked around, then dropped limply onto the orange couch. Vin sat next to him. He looked terrible. 'He's got to be in shock,' Chris thought numbly. But he couldn't say anything. His mind kept trying to wrap itself around the thought that Buck hadn't been breathing. That Buck could be...

As always, he couldn't deal with the emotions. He cut them off, forced them back, felt the anger coming out and welcomed it. Anger would give him strength. "What the hell happened?" he growled.

Vin rubbed his hand over his eyes; Chris noticed he was careful not to touch the white bandage. "We got there," he reported tiredly, staring unseeingly at the wall. "The cop on duty said everything had been quiet. I called you, and--Buck," there was just the faintest hesitation in his voice before the name, "Buck went upstairs to get some clothes and stuff." Vin was speaking by rote, his eyes never blinking. "He yelled my name--and then, the loft...there was this...God-awful noise and--"

The double doors slid open and a gray-haired man in scrubs and a lab coat stepped out. He stopped at the desk, and the elderly woman in a crisp pink smock pointed toward Vin and Chris. The man approached. "Are you two here for Buck Wilmington?"

Chris stood up. "I'm Chris Larabee." His throat was so very tight as he forced out the next words. "How is he?" 

"Mr. Larabee, maybe you'd better sit down."

"I don't want to sit down! Tell me how he is!"

Vin reached up and put a hand on his arm. "Chris...go easy...he ain't the enemy here."

Chris clenched his fists, fought for control. 'God, this can't be happening.' He covered his eyes with one hand. "Just tell me how he is, please."

The man nodded. Sitting down on another shapeless seat across from the two ATF agents, he looked pointedly at Chris until he, too, sat. "I'm Dr. Culver."

The name was vaguely familiar to Chris but he couldn't remember why. He tensed, waiting for the next words to come from the doctor's mouth.

"Mr. Wilmington is in extremely critical condition. His blood pressure is very low; he's not breathing on his own. We have him on a respirator. I suspect massive internal hemorrhaging. We're taking him up to OR immediately."

Chris couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The words reverberated like an echo chamber. "Can I see him?" he managed to ask.

"There's no time, Mr. Larabee. Every second right now could make a difference."

Chris looked up. His eyes flared with anger. "Then what are you waiting for?"

"Mr. Larabee, we have him on a respirator," the doctor said gently. "We have to have consent from his next of kin before--"

"I'm his damn next of kin!" Chris voice was a ravaged whisper. "You can call the Legal Office at the ATF, or you can take my word for it...but I have his Power of Attorney for medical decisions. Just give me the damn papers to sign and go--" his throat closed up and he couldn't say anything else. 

Culver nodded and stood. "I'll have the nurses keep you posted with what's going on. You can wait here, or in the surgical waiting room on the second floor."

"Doc--" Vin started. "Is he...gonna make it?"

Culver met Vin's eyes, then his own flickered toward Chris. "We'll do all we can," he said quietly. "Mr. Wilmington has to do his part and...it wouldn't hurt to pray for a miracle."

~+~+~+~

They went to the second-floor waiting room--which looked exactly like the room they’d just left except it was done in mauve and gray rather than orange and beige. The furniture was still that squishy, shapeless stuff that made Vin’s spine feel like it was going to snap in two.

Vin got them cups of hot black coffee from a machine tucked into a corner. On the way back, his attention was caught by a discreet sign: “Cellular phones prohibited in this facility with the exception of Main Floor Lobby and Waiting Areas.”

He handed one cup to Chris and then pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. He’d left the jacket in Chris’ truck but for some reason he’d thought to grab it before he climbed in the ambulance with Buck. He had a slip of paper in his wallet where he’d written down the number for Ezra’s room at Lakewood-St. David’s. David Montgomery answered. He said Ezra hadn’t woken up yet but he was restless and moving around a lot. Just before they hung up, he added that Team Four had found a bomb in Ezra’s condo and had successfully disarmed it. Vin let the phone drop into his lap.

“What?” Chris asked. Vin started; he’d thought Chris’ whole attention was on the double doors leading back to the operating rooms. “Ez okay?”

“He’s still sleepin’, but restless.” ‘Damn I need to get over there before he wakes up. He don’t need to wake up with someone he barely knows sittin’ beside him. But I can’t leave Chris alone like this either...’If his head would just stop pounding maybe he could figure something out...

“They found a bomb at Ez’s place,” he said out loud. “Got rid of it. Maybe it’ll tell the investigators somethin’.”

“Was anybody else hurt? At Buck’s?” Chris added the last words with difficulty. His eyes strayed back to the double doors.

“No.” Vin hesitated. “I’m no bomb expert, but it looked t’ me like it was just set to take out one person. Buck was gettin’ clothes...I’m guessin’ it was in his closet or maybe the chest of drawers.” He paused. “I bet he saw it,” he added quietly. “Just before the--before it happened--I heard him yell my name.”

Chris nodded, saying nothing. After a few more minutes of silence, he pulled his own cell phone out. Never taking his eyes off the double doors, his fingers punched in an auto--dial sequence. “Nathan?” he said after a few seconds. “You need to come back. And bring JD with you. There’s been...” he stopped, seemingly unable to say the word “bomb”. Vin took the phone from him. 

“Nate, it’s me.”

“What’s going on, Vin?” Nathan’s voice sounded worried even through the distorted connection. “Where are you, anyway? Wyoming?”

“No. We’re in Denver. Ezra’s in the hospital and Buck...Buck was caught in a bombin’ this afternoon.” He could see Chris wince at the words. Nathan started to sputter questions but Vin just kept talking. “He’s in surgery now. Get JD, Nathan. We need you t’ come home.”

 

Florida

Nathan parked the rental car in the hotel lot. His duffel and backpack were already in the trunk. He and Rain were due to meet JD and Casey for dinner. It was their first get-together since he and JD had arrived in the Sunshine State. Different life-styles, really: he and Rain had so little time together between his job, the extra courses he was taking at night, her med school classes and her work at the hospital, that they had just wanted time alone. Long walks on the beach; intimate, romantic dinners in small restaurants off the tourist path; making long lingering love in the hotel room.

Casey and JD were younger, more caught up in the “party-time” atmosphere of Spring Break in Florida. Or at least Casey was. Nathan suspected JD would have had just as good a time--maybe a better time--if he hadn’t been constantly surrounded by a pack of wild college kids determined to party down every minute.

He and Rain had talked, while he’d quickly packed. They’d decided it would be best if she came along with him. She could stay with Casey while he and JD headed to the airport. Maybe Casey would even want to come back to their hotel with Rain. Nathan would turn in Rain’s rental at the airport--she could use the one JD had.

Rain tucked her hand in his pocket as they started for the imposing glass entrance. Nathan put his arm around her. Normally they weren’t demonstrative in public but right now he needed her strength.

It had taken patient questioning--patience he really didn’t feel, he’d wanted to yell through the phone at Vin until the sharpshooter gave him all the answers--but he’d managed to find out Buck and Ezra had suffered some kind of food-poisoning and had stayed in Denver when the rest of the team left. Nathan’s conscience kicked him hard. ‘I knew somethin’ was wrong with Buck at the airport. I knew Ezra didn’t look good. I should have done something!’

Ezra was still in the hospital being treated for the food poisoning. Buck had somehow--Vin sounded in shock, he wasn’t giving details--got to his own place.

And a bomb went off. 

After Vin had hung up, while Nathan was throwing his things into his bags, Rain had called a friend who was a nurse at University Medical Center. The friend knew about Buck’s admission--the bombing was big news in Denver --but all she could tell Rain was what Vin had already told Nathan.

Extremely critical condition. In surgery right now. 

“Hey, Nathan!” JD called from across the lobby and waved enthusiastically, then headed toward them leading a giggling Casey by the hand. Casey’s round faced was tanned and she had flowers in her hair. JD’s fair skin was sunburned a painful-looking pink and he was wearing a shirt with bright orange parrots on a dark blue background. Except for the fact the shirt fit him, it looked like it could have been purloined from Buck’s wardrobe--Nathan’s unconscious smile faded.

JD was in front of them now. “Nathan! Rain! How’s the vacation going? You guys look--“

And then he just stopped, his eyes glued to Nathan’s face.

In the few seconds before Nathan could speak, JD changed before his eyes. Gone was the giddy kid on vacation. In his place was the stolid, no-nonsense, mature beyond-his-years agent that occasionally came out in times of stress. And seeing that JD always scared the crap out of Nathan, because it meant things were very bad indeed.

“JD--“ he started.

“Who is it?” JD’s voice was too calm, although his eyes were searing pools of agony. He dropped Casey’s hand and stood in front of Nathan, his head tipped up a little so he could look him directly in the eyes. Rain moved away from Nathan and came up beside Casey, sliding one arm around her shoulders.

“Who?” JD insisted. “How bad?”

Nathan’s mouth was dry. He had to swallow twice before he could speak. “We’ve gotta go home, JD,” he finally managed. “Someone planted a bomb in your apartment.”

A look of shock crossed JD’s expressive face. “A bomb? Who’d--“ he shook his head. “Was there a lot of damage? Boy, Buck’ll be pissed--“

And then he stopped. And he looked at Nathan. And Nathan saw it in his eyes as he realized what Nathan couldn’t say.”

JD started shaking his head in denial, even as the hard-as-nails agent disappeared to be replaced by a kid...a kid in fear for his big brother. “No. No. Not Buck...he couldn’t...he wasn’t there, Nathan! You know that! He went to Wyoming with Chris...and Vin...Nathan, he wasn’t there!”

“I’m sorry, JD,” Nathan said, his own heart breaking at the look on the kid’s face. “We’ve got to go, kid. Buck needs you now.”

 

Part 16

Lakewood-St. David’s Hospital  
Denver

Ezra Standish sleepily opened his eyes and saw an empty chair.

That kick-started his foggy brain as nothing else could have. Memory came flooding back, along with the realization he was in the hospital and why.

Alone?

Ezra couldn’t remember the last time he woke up in a hospital without at least one of his teammates near by keeping vigil. Well, yes, he could remember...it was that last time in Atlanta, when his world had collapsed in huge chunks around him. When his mentor, his friend, had framed him, betrayed him, and then walked away.

Months later, he’d woken up in a hospital in Denver. 

_Flashback_

His eyes opened and focused blearily around him. Pale green walls. Not his bed. Not his bedroom. Where was he? Who was he?

“Ezra? You awake?”

Adrenaline kicked in. His heart started pounding. The voice said “Ezra”. Not Eric or Edward or Evan or Andrew or any of the other dozens of aliases he used to protect his real life when undercover. His cover was blown--he threw himself to his side, he had to get out, had to get away--he saw a door. He could get there--

“Ez!” 

The door opened and hand caught him, guiding him backward toward that hated bed. He was panting now, cornered, terrified--

“What the hell is going on in here? Ezra? You’re awake!”

“Think he’s a mite startled.” A slow, drawling voice.

“What’d you do to him, Kid?” The voice belonging to the hands that held him directed the words above his head.

“I didn’t do anything!” The first voice protested. “He just woke up!”

“Easy, Pard, you just need to calm down a bit.” That was the voice of the man that held him. 

The cooler voice from the door said, “Vin, go get the nurse.”

Vin. Kid.

He recognized the voices and the people and sagged back in the bed, no longer fighting Buck Wilmington’s hands. He turned his head and met the worried eyes of JD Dunne, who’d been sitting in the chair next to the bed but was now standing up. "My apologies, Mr. Dunne.” He could hear the ragged edges of his own voice, the breathless panting for air. He closed his eyes and tried desperately to restore his calm facade.

The pain--which had been held at bay by panic--crashed over him then and he gasped, trying to curl into a ball to escape it.

“Ezra?” Another worried voice, this one deeper, close by. “Are you in pain, son?”

The first time Josiah Sanchez called him “son”. It wasn’t the last.

“Gentlemen,” he gasped out. “What are you all doing here?”

There was a startled silence in the room. He pried open his eyes to see confused looks on JD’s and Buck’s faces, and Nathan’s--and where had he come from--and a sad look on Josiah’s. Vin was back in the doorway and he just shook his head.

But the answer came from Chris Larabee, who had somehow moved around and got to the head of the bed. “Well, Ezra...you’re here. Where would you expect us to be?”

Ezra stared at all of them. He was the newcomer. The black sheep with the cloud of disgrace hanging over them. They didn’t even know him. He didn’t know them. They didn’t like him. He was so far past liking or disliking people he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to have a friend. They couldn’t trust him. He couldn’t trust them, or anybody. 

But they had stayed.

He was hurt, and they had stayed. Why? Because they were worried? Because they cared? Preposterous thoughts.

But because of them, he wasn’t alone. For the first time in a long time, maybe his whole life, he wasn’t alone.

_End Flashback_

And now he was alone. Something was wrong.

The door was open a few inches. He could hear voices outside. Maybe Chris--it had been Chris here last time he’d awoke, hadn’t it?--had just stepped out...but no, the voices weren’t familiar. Closing his eyes, concentrating, Ezra willed himself to be able to hear.

“Brought you some coffee.”

“Thank you.” Silence. “Any word?”

“Both teams have reported in. They found a bomb at Standish’s place, but they disarmed it and our guys and the Denver PD are examining it now. Preliminary reports are it’s the same kind of device that took out Wilmington’s.”

Ezra held his breath, then cursed as he remembered the monitors. He forced himself to calm down. His pounding heart would set off that alarm any second now--

“How is Wilmington? Have you heard anything?”

“Called over to University Medical Center about twenty minutes ago. He’s still in surgery. Doesn’t look good.”

Ezra stopped listening. He opened his eyes and studied the ceiling.

Buck was hurt.

He needed to get out of here. 

His family needed him.

 

Florida:

"We have to get to Denver," Nathan insisted.

"Sir, I understand what you're saying," the ticketing agent said, her tone frustrated. "But you don't seem to understand what I'm saying. I can't get you to Denver. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. This is Spring Break in Florida! Half the people in the country are going to fly into or out of this airport this week, and I think the other half are flying into Denver for spring skiing." She clicked a few more keys on her computer and shook her head, auburn curls flying. "Plus there's a snowstorm in the Northeast, another one in the Midwest, dense fog on the West coast and high winds in Texas!"

Nathan opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, JD reached across the counter and touched her arm. "Please," he said imploringly. "My best friend may be....he's hurt. Bad. We have to get home."

The ticketing agent looked up at JD. Her tense face softened as she took in his distraught face. Nathan held his breath. "Maybe..." she said softly. She looked back at her screen and typed in a series of commands. "Yeah..." she said to herself, "Now if that flight's delayed..." she typed again. After a minute a smile lit up her face. "Well, this doesn't get you to Denver but it gets you closer. There are two seats on a flight to Dallas-Fort Worth. The flight's been delayed until ten-oh-six, landing in Dallas 11:36 local time. You're going to be stuck there until morning, but starting at 4:30 am there's a flight to Denver every hour. You should be able to get on standby and get there sometime tomorrow--before noon." She looked up apologetically. "That's really the best I can do."

Nathan nodded. "We'll take it."

 

Denver:

Chris stared out the window. Not much of a view, actually; it was full dark now and the windows faced onto another wing of the hospital. But it was better than staring at those double doors leading to the OR that he'd been staring at for hours. 

He reached one hand back to massage his neck, the muscles taut and screaming with tension. ‘Over four hours with no word...'

Well, there was some word. About every hour or so, the phone would ring at the reception desk. The nurse--or whatever she was--would answer it, say a few words, put the phone down and then beckon to him or Vin. Always the same message--Buck was still in surgery. Still hanging on.

Still alive.

He stared out the window, not seeing. 'Hang in there, you son of a bitch. You die and I'll kill you myself.' He felt his lips curve into an unconscious smile as he could almost hear Buck's voice saying "Hell, Old Dog, that's a real threat!" 

Finally leaving the window, he walked back to Vin. The lanky sharpshooter was sprawled half-on, half-off the sofa, dozing. His face was bleached pale in the flickering fluorescent lights. The bandage on his forehead was spotted. Chris caught sight of the dried blood on Vin's jeans and felt his stomach churn. He'd figured out that the blood was Buck's, not Vin's; and the thought of how much more of his old friend's blood must be staining the hardwood floors at his bombed-out apartment sent his mind screaming. He gasped, literally fighting to breathe. 'I've got to get out of here. Got to get some air.'

Leaving Vin dozing, he quickly went to the desk and told the woman behind it he'd be back soon and to page him if there was any news. She smiled, her eyes sympathetic, and nodded. 

Chris turned on his heel and walked out of the waiting room, his strides lengthening as he approached the elevator. Punching the button for "Lobby" he dug his nails into his arms through the short trip down, then got off the lift and headed for the nearest exit.

~+~+~+~

Vin was half-asleep, half awake, caught in a restless world where dream and nightmare and reality merged. Over and over he heard Buck's voice yelling his name, then ear-shattering noise and darkness. His head pounded with the beat of his heart.

He felt the sofa dip next to him. Felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He couldn't wake up.

"Vin!"

Vin jerked back to reality at the sound of that voice. His eyes flew open to stare at the other man in shock. "Ezra!"

 

Part 17

The medical center complex sprawled out over two full city blocks. Chris walked the whole way around it, hands tucked deep into his pockets, shoulders bent into the chill wind. The rain had stopped but the temperature had sharply dropped with the advent of nightfall, and a bite to the wind suggested the encroaching clouds carried more than just rain.

He moved at a swift, steady pace, concentrating on nothing but the pounding of his boots on the pavement, the chill touch of air against his face. His mind worked desperately at shoring up the walls he’d structured around himself so long ago. Those walls were in danger of crumbling; the bedrock in which they had been entrenched had partly been his deep-seated faith that no matter what happened, no matter what he did, or said, or didn’t say, Buck Wilmington would always be there.

A fragment of verse fluttered across his mind. He had no idea where he’d learned it. He frowned, pace unconsciously slowing as he tried to remember. What was it? 

Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow.  
Don’t walk behind me, I may not lead.  
Just walk beside me, and be my friend.

He shivered.

The words could have been written with Buck Wilmington in mind.

He turned the corner and started downhill toward the front entrance of the hospital. The glass-fronted entrance was brilliantly lit, reaching out onto the dark pavement. A police car pulled away from the curb; stopped suddenly and reversed. The door opened and a figure stepped out.

“Larabee?”

Chris looked up at his name, eyes narrowing as he took in the figure stepping onto the lighted curb. “Hamilton.” He could hear the ice in his tone. “What brings you here?”

The burly cop stuck his hands in his pockets. Surprisingly, given the weather, he wasn’t wearing his heavy Denver PD-issue jacket but just his uniform with the long-sleeved shirt. “Drove your man Standish over.”

Chris stopped in front of the other man; blinked; replayed the words in his mind. “What did you say?” He clenched his hands into fists to keep from grabbing the cop by the collar and pounding his face into the pavement, just for old time’s sake.

“Standish.” Hamilton smirked. “He found out about Wilmington.”

Chris shook his head. “You mean they released him from the hospital?”

“More like he released himself. Discharged himself AMA.” Incredibly, there seemed to be a hint of real admiration in the officer’s sarcastic tone.

“How the hell did he find out?” Chris demanded harshly, taking a step forward.

Hamilton gave ground, his hands upheld. “Hey, it wasn’t me that told him. Take it up with your buddies, the ‘suits’. From what I figured out, he overheard a couple of them talking and pulled out the IV himself. Nothin’ the doctor or that guy with the fancy cane said made any difference to him, he just out-talked them.” No doubt about it, that was admiration in his voice. “I gave him a lift over here.” He shrugged at Chris’ glare. “Figured it was better than letting him take a bus or a cab. He was coming over anyway, I just thought I’d make sure he got here safely.”

Chris forced back the rage. He knew Ezra. The man was acting exactly to form. Actually, he was behaving the same way any other member of Team Seven would do under the circumstances. Their own health or safety would always take a backseat to that of a teammate. That was the very reason Chris had warned Montgomery not to tell Ezra about Buck. ‘I’m going to shoot that SOB Montgomery. Assistant to the Assistant Director or not.’He looked at Hamilton and grudgingly nodded. “Thanks, Sergeant.” He turned to walk into the hospital.

“Larabee.”

Chris turned back.

Hamilton looked serious. “I hate your guts, Larabee. And I’m not crazy about Wilmington either. But...I never wanted something like this to happen to him. No matter what happened between us, you were good cops. You’re probably good Feds. I hope Wilmington makes it.”

Chris stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Thanks.” He turned his back and entered the hospital. 

~+~+~+~

Vin stared at Ezra. “Ezra, what ‘n’ the hell’r you doing? You’re supposed to be in the hospital!”

“I am in a hospital, Mr. Tanner,” Standish pointed out. “How’s Buck?” he added anxiously.

Vin shook his head, glancing over at the OR doors. “Don’t know yet. He’s still in surgery.” He frowned. “How did you find out?”

Ezra dropped his gaze. His expression became carefully closed, shuttered. “I overheard Mr. Montgomery talking with young Agent Fewell.”

“Hell, Ez, I’m sorry,” Vin said softly. Standish’s head jerked up. Vin went on, “You shouldn’t’ve found out like that. I was gonna come back and tell you, but...hell, I didn’t want to leave Chris until--sorry, Pard.”

“That’s all right, Vin,” Ezra said quietly. “Your place right now is with Mr. Larabee.” He studied Tanner with a worried expression on his face. “Are you all right?”

“Me? I’m not the one who was pukin’ up a lung!” Vin tried to grin. His head throbbed and he winced. “Can’t believe they released you,” he added. Then he took a good luck at the other man and groaned. “Shit. They didn’t, did they? You snuck out?”

Ezra settled back gingerly against the upholstery. “You overestimate me, Mr. Tanner. Even I can’t escape with a guard on my door and needles and wires stuck into every crevice.”

Vin snorted. “Sure you could, if’n you put your mind to it.”

“Well...to be honest, I didn’t have quite enough energy to expend manufacturing a suitable scenario,” Ezra admitted. “So I took a more direct approach.”

“And that was?” Vin grasped at the conversation to keep his mind off his pounding headache and the churning feeling of panic in his gut every time he closed his eyes and saw Buck’s battered body lying on the floor of the loft.

Ezra had closed his eyes. He looked bad. Exhaustion dragged at his words. “Surely you are aware, Mr. Tanner, that in this great country of ours it is against the law to retain a person against his or her will for treatment in a medical care facility unless said person has been deemed incompetent in a court of law or otherwise ordered to the treatment facility by authorized Agents of the law.” Then he had to stop and breathe heavily.

Vin had the distinct suspicion Ezra had rehearsed that little speech on the way over. He thought about what Ezra had said, and then felt a slow smile cross his bruised and aching face. “Y’mean...ya just told the doc you were goin’ t’ leave?”

Ezra didn’t look at him. “I wouldn’t plan on using such a technique the next time you are injured or otherwise incarcerated in a hospital.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is only effective if those around you are not willing to resort to brute force to keep you there for treatment.” Ezra opened his eyes and translated, “In other words, had Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Sanchez, or, God forbid, our esteemed Mr. Larabee, been there--I wouldn’t have had--in the vernacular--a hope in Hell.”

Vin frowned. ‘Well, shit.’

Then he took another look at the southerner. “Umm...nice threads, Ez. Don’t somehow seem your style, though.”

Ezra was wearing gray sweat pants and a bright red T-shirt advertising a local tennis club; both hung loosely on his slender frame. He had on a pair of dingy white Nikes that Vin suspected had at least two pairs of heavy socks stuffed in the toes, and a heavy Denver PD jacket that practically swallowed him.

“Well, when the esteemed Dr. Baker came to the correct conclusion that he was no longer going to be able to detain me, he decided there was some provision of the Hippocratic Oath that required him to procure appropriate attire for me. Well...at least more suitable than that deplorable hospital gown.”

Two sets of double doors banged open at once. Chris Larabee strode in one set, his eyes shooting flames as he fixed his gaze on the undercover agent.

“Ah, damn,” Ezra groaned, apparently recognizing the look.

And the doors to the operating rooms opened and Dr. Culver stepped out and headed in their direction.

Everyone froze.

Dr. Culver looked at Vin, then Chris; he frowned as he glanced at Ezra, then looked back at Chris. “Mr. Wilmington is quite a fighter. He made it through the surgery.”

 

Chris was dizzy. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Relief swam over him, weakening his knees. He dropped to the sofa next to Ezra. His mind filled with one thought. ‘He’s alive. He’s alive.’ He looked at his two friends. Vin was smiling widely in spite of the ugly black bruises that were starting to come out on his face. And Ezra--the undercover agent had leaned his head back against the nubby mauve upholstery and quite simply looked like he was going to pass out.

Chris exchanged relieved glances with Vin over Ezra’s body and then switched his attention back to the doctor. What he saw there sent the fear rushing through his veins again. “Doctor--“ he couldn’t remember the man’s name--“He made it through the surgery. That’s good. He’s out of danger?”

The other two must have sensed his tension. They both looked at the doctor.

“He’s goin’ to be okay, right?”

Ezra didn’t say anything, just stared at the doctor through green eyes that were too-large in his pale face.

“Mr. Wilmington is still in very critical condition,” the doctor said carefully. 

Chris listened numbly as the doctor went through a seeming laundry-list of injuries. Concussion. Shock. Blood loss. Fractured femur. Busted ribs. Internal injury. Collapsed lung.

He replayed the last bit the doctor had said. Ice cold chills shivered inside him. “What did you say? About his breathing?”

The doctor looked at him with sympathy. “We still have him on a respirator. He’s not breathing on his own right now.”

_Flashback_

Hey, Chris.” Buck stuck his head inside the door. “You busy?”

“Since when does that stop you?” Chris waved Buck to come on in. It was Buck’s first day back in Denver after his ATF training. After Chris had left the Denver PD, Buck had gone to work on the Bomb Squad. He’d been there ten months when Chris had been tapped by AD Travis to form his own ATF team. 

Buck knew it was coming. He and Chris had talked about it at dinner the week before. Chris assumed Buck realized he’d want him on the team. It surprised the hell out of Larabee that--when he’d called Buck to tell him the team was a “go”-- Buck had seemingly been surprised Chris was expecting him to join. 

That shock had lasted maybe twenty seconds. Buck handed in his resignation that same day.

Chris was reviewing files. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for in this new team of his, but he knew--just as he’d known he needed Buck on it--that he’d know when he saw people if they’d fit. Each ATF team had specialists: Undercover, Computers, Profiler, Surveillance, Weapons, Sharpshooter...but Chris was looking for someone who could be a team member first, and a specialist second.

“What’s up?” he asked Buck, seeing some papers in the other man’s hand.

Buck hesitated. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days. Irritated the hell out of Chris. Since when did Buck not just blurt out whatever he was thinking?

“It’s this Medical Power of Attorney thing,” the taller man said finally. “You mind me putting your name down?”

Now Chris was really confused. “Hell, no. I’ve always been your POA, haven’t I?” They’d been partners since they were rookies on the Denver PD. Buck didn’t have any blood next of kin; Chris was as close as it got. Somehow, even in the black days after Sarah and Adam died, when Chris’ grief and rage had swallowed him and sent him seeking oblivion anywhere he could find it--he’d never expected that to change. The thought that it had made him nervous suddenly, uneasy. What else had changed between them?

“You always have been,” Buck confirmed quietly. “Even when--“ he stopped. “I just--wanted to make sure you didn’t mind.”

“Just don’t make me have actually do anything with it, and I won’t mind,” Chris cracked, desperate to lighten the tension.

It worked. Buck’s grin broke out. “Do my best, Cowboy.” He started out the door, then hesitated, turned back. “Chris...just in case it ever does come down to it...I don’t want to be kept alive by machines, okay? Not like--“ he stopped quickly but Chris knew what he was thinking about. Those four days in the burn ward with Adam. Buck had been there the whole time...”If I can’t do it on my own, Pard, just let me go. Okay?”

_End Flashback_

‘Well, forget it, Buck,’ Chris thought harshly. ‘You’d better start breathin’ on your own cause I’m not giving permission to take you off that respirator. Not now.’

He broke into the doctor’s carefully measured words. “When can we see him?” His voice was firm. He eyed the doctor challengingly, almost daring him to say they couldn’t see Buck. Chris was spoiling for a fight, for someone to release his temper on. One tiny bit of sane control left kept him from lashing out at Vin or Ezra, knowing neither of them were in any condition for it.

The doctor apparently wasn’t either. “He’ll be settled in ICU in about an hour. He’ll be on the fourth floor; I’ll have the nurse notify you when you can see him.”

‘Fourth floor ICU. Oh, shit.’

Suddenly Chris remembered what he’d been trying to ignore all day. University Medical Center. Where Adam had died.

In the burn unit. Next to the fourth floor ICU.

 

Part 18

DFW International Airport  
Terminal C

JD Dunne walked up and down the long hallways of the airport. His body sagged with fatigue but he couldn’t rest. Couldn’t even sit down. Nervous energy forced him to keep moving.

The airport was a mess; crowded with people even at two in the morning. When the flight from Miami had landed JD and Nathan had learned that high winds in the Dallas area had grounded planes throughout the afternoon and evening. Hundreds of people were stranded at the airport; their flights cancelled, desperate to get to wherever they were supposed to be going. 

Some people had been transported by courtesy vans to nearby hotels. The majority, though, stuck it out at the airport, in busy Terminal C, the “hub” for American Airlines. The winds had died down, flights were taking off again, but the entire schedule was in disarray. Bad weather in other parts of the country wasn’t helping anything.

The first flight out for Denver, originally scheduled to depart at 4:20 a.m., had already been postponed until 4:59. Rumor had it the flight was going to be delayed taking off in Philadelphia, which was suffering through a heavy snowfall. Nathan and JD were “standby” on that flight, but the ticketing agent didn’t hold out much hope. The last four flights out of Dallas to Denver had been scrubbed. JD and Nathan were so far down on the standby list they weren’t even showing up on the computer. 

JD passed the waiting area for Gate 35 again. He spotted Nathan, dozing restlessly, one foot on JD’s carry-on bag, his own in the seat next to him. The woman on the other side jiggled her screaming baby. JD winced--the woman and baby had been on the flight from Miami and the infant had yelled the whole way. At least four other people were juggling crying babies too; several older children played a game of tag around the filled seats. 

JD kept on walking. Most of the shops were closed for the night with iron-mesh grills pulled to the floor. The “Alamo”--a bar--remained open as well as a coffee kiosk and an ice cream stand. JD bought a bottle of water at the coffee place--any more caffeine and his head would explode--and kept walking.

He was alone in the crowded airport.

He passed a bank of phones and hesitated, fingering his cell phone in his pocket. ‘No use calling again,’ he thought. ‘They would have called if anything--‘

His phone rang.

JD shakily punched the button. “Yeah?” ‘Should have answered with my name--but nobody else would be calling--‘

“It’s me.” Vin sounded bad--exhausted, maybe hurting. “He’s out of surgery.”

A wave of reaction swept over JD; he leaned against a pillar to keep his trembling legs from folding underneath him. “Is he--“

“He’s still hangin’ in there,” Vin said. JD got the distinct feeling Vin wasn’t telling him the whole truth about Buck’s condition. “Any idea when you’re gettin’ home?”

“No.” JD sucked in a deep breath. “Vin...be straight with me...how is he?”

There was a long pause. ‘JD, he’s not breathin’ on his own,” Vin finally said, reluctantly. “They’ve got him on a respirator right now. But he’ll be okay, JD. You know Bucklin. He ain’t goin’ to quit fighting.”

JD’s hand clenched tight on the phone. ‘Respirator. Oh, God...’He remembered something and managed to force out “What about Ezra? How’s he doing?”

There was a distinct snort over the phone. “Hell, he’s right here...or he was. He went to get somethin’ to drink. He discharged himself from the hospital a couple of hours ago.” There was a murmur of voices in the background, then Vin’s voice came back on again, sounding rushed. “JD, I’ve got t’ go. Call when you know somethin’ about what plane you’ll be on.”

“Vin--“ JD started, but he was talking to empty air. He closed the phone and leaned back against the pillar.

Alone in a crowded airport, JD Dunne wiped the tears from his face.

 

University Medical Center  
Denver:

The nurse stopped at the entrance to the ICU cubicle and turned to look at the three men following her.

The long night had taken a toll on all of them. Mr. Larabee--the tall one in black--was obviously wound way too tightly. He was practically vibrating with pent-up tension, just looking for something to detonate him. His face was set in harsh lines. His ice-green eyes looked at her, then flickered to the closed door behind her. 

She didn’t know the names of the other two men. The long-haired one immediately behind Mr. Larabee must have been the other man caught in the explosion that had critically injured her patient. The news bulletins and hospital gossip had said there were two ATF agents in the apartment when the blast went off. Mr. Wilmington had been directly in front of it. She’d heard one of the surgeons commenting he must have realized what was about to happen and tried to take cover--those few feet he’d gained had made the difference between critical injury and immediate death.

Although death might still be the result.

The long-haired man had a wide bandage across his forehead. Vicious black bruises marred his handsome face and dried blood stiffened his hair and clothing.

She had no idea who the third man was. Another team member, she assumed. He didn’t look very healthy either--if he got through the next ten minutes without passing out, she’d be amazed. Even now he was leaning on the wall like that was the only thing keeping him vertical. She couldn’t help herself, she had to ask, “Sir, are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”

Wrong move. The man straightened his spine. He snapped, “I’m quite well, thank you.” He had a distinct southern accent.

The man with all the bruises had turned to look at him; Mr. Larabee seemed oblivious. Bruised Man said, “Go easy, Ez. She don’t mean nothin’.”

The other man closed his eyes. “My apologies, Miss--“ he opened his eyes and shot a look at her nametag--“Miss Schuller.”

“Can we go in?” Mr. Larabee suddenly demanded.

Lisa Schuller had the distinct impression if she didn’t get out of the way the black-clad man was simply going to go around her--or through her. She held up her hand, praying that whatever was restraining the rage she could sense in the man continued to work. “Dr. Culver left instructions to allow all three of you to visit Mr. Wilmington for a short period. But only one of you can stay with him.” Shivering a little bit at the look on Larabee’s face, she was suddenly very glad that Culver had decided to override the usual restricted visitation in ICU. ‘I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell this man he had to leave.’

She stepped aside. “Fifteen minutes, gentlemen. Then two of you need to go back out to the waiting room.” ‘Or down to ER and get yourselves admitted,’ she thought.

~+~+~+~

Chris’ world narrowed to focus only on the still form in the bed. He stepped to his friend’s side, sinking down into the one straight chair beside the bed and gripping Buck’s hand gently, careful not to disturb the IV feeding into it. The hand was cold as ice. 

Chris stared at Buck’s white face, absorbing the shock of the respirator keeping him alive. The face was so pale and still--marked with livid bruises--there seemed to be nothing of the laughing, vital Buck Wilmington left. In spite of the monitors telling him differently, Chris was flooded with the irrational fear his friend was gone. Panic seized him; his heart pounded in his throat. He gripped Buck’s hand tighter, the desperate reflex of a man seeking a life rope. 

“You okay, Cowboy?” The soft drawl broke the spell, drawing Chris back from the abyss he faced.

Chris tore his eyes away from Buck to look at his other two men. His eyes widened in surprise. He really hadn’t looked at either of them in hours--it hadn’t registered how bad they both looked.

He’d been focused on the thought of Buck for so long; now--his hand physically holding Buck with him--he realized he had others to care for as well. The anger keeping him sane tinged his voice as he growled, “You two look like shit. Get the hell out of here before you both fall down.”

Two pairs of eyes--one set washed-out green, the other tired blue--swung to look at him. Two faces--one bruised, one pale as milk--set in stubborn lines. Two heads started to shake negatively.

“Git going,” he ordered. He tightened his grip on Buck’s lax hand. “I’ll stay here with Buck. Go get some sleep and somethin’ to eat.” He frowned, considering places. “Go to Ezra’s. There’s still a PD guard on it.”

 

Both Vin and Ezra recognized the look and knew there was No Room For Discussion. That didn’t mean they didn’t try. “I--“ Ezra managed to say before he was cut off.

“That’s an order.” Larabee’s voice was soft, silky--filled with true menace. As the two men watched, he turned away, his whole attention focusing again on Buck.

Josiah would have uttered something proverbial--such as “There is a time and a place to argue, a time and a place to acquiesce.” Vin and Ezra exchanged looks. Neither of them wanted to leave Buck or Chris, but they both knew their leader too well. His whole energy needed to be centered on Buck now--they were distracting him from the Task he had set himself--to drag Buck away from dark place his spirit now resided and bring him back into the world of the living.

And at least Ezra recognized he was fading fast. ‘And Mr. Tanner looks worse than I feel.’He nodded at Chris and stepped out. 

“Chris, you need some sleep--.“ Even as Vin said it he knew it was a useless attempt

“Go, Vin.” Chris didn’t look at him. “Take care of Ezra. You can come back after you’ve had some rest.”

Vin hesitated. “You’ll call if--“ he faltered before the piercing green gaze that swung to impale him. “--when he wakes up,” he finished.

Chris stared at him, then his face softened just a bit. He nodded.

~~~~

It was a measure of how exhausted they both were that it didn’t dawn on either Ezra or Vin until they got to the main lobby that they didn’t have a vehicle at the hospital. Vin’s jeep was at Chris’ place; Ezra’s Jag and Buck’s pickup were still at Ezra’s; and Chris’ truck had either been impounded or was still sitting in front of Buck’s blown-out apartment. Vin shivered, remembering his last look at the Ram: the windows had all been shattered by the force of the blast.

Ezra dropped into a chair in the waiting area. “Well, Mr. Tanner, do you have any brilliant resolutions on how to solve our current transportation dilemma?” His southern accent was deeper than usual and the words sagged under a load of exhaustion.

“Guess we call a cab,” Vin returned tiredly. He plopped into the seat next to Ezra, stretched his legs out in front of him, and reached for his cell phone. He froze. “Shit.”

Ezra had closed his eyes. He didn’t open them but he moved his head a bit as he said, “Elucidate, sir.”

When Vin didn’t say anything, Ezra’s eyes snapped open and he looked at Tanner worriedly. “Vin?” He followed the other man’s gaze and took in the huge irregular patches of dried blood that covered the knees and lower legs of his jeans. “I take it that’s not your blood?” he asked quietly.

Vin shook his head slowly. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut. “I didn’t think--“ He remembered kneeling next to Buck’s body in the aftermath of the explosion--it seemed like a lifetime ago instead of just scant hours--feeling the blood soak into his jeans, but he hadn’t thought about it since getting to the hospital. ‘Shit, Chris has been lookin’ at that all night...’

Suddenly everything swept over him, making his head swim. He closed his eyes against a surge of nausea and felt cold sweat break out on his face and the back of his neck.

“Vin!” Ezra sounded really alarmed now. ‘Good goin’, you’re supposed to be takin’ care of him, not scarin’ him half to death.’ Somehow he couldn’t seem to open his eyes. “I’m okay,” he slurred out. 

“That is highly debatable,” Ezra snapped. Vin felt him take the phone from his hand, heard the tones as a number was pressed into the keypad, then heard Ezra’s voice requesting a cab to the hospital. “You can shower at my home; I’m sure you can find something in my wardrobe you can tolerate to wear.” Rueful amusement suddenly tinged Ezra’s voice. “Although, I am quite aware our taste in wearin’ apparel differs.”

Vin was gripped by a sudden fierce longing for his own place. Going home wasn’t possible though. He’d never find a cab driver willing to drive into the Purgatorio at this time of the night. ‘Besides, I got t’ stay with Ezra.’He was too tired to even think why that was so important.

 

By the time the cab--driven by an elderly man who was quite amazingly verbal for four-thirty in the morning--pulled up in front of Ezra’s condominium complex, both agents were on their last legs and fading fast. Ezra fumbled some bills out of his wallet and turned to the paved walkway. His hands went in a reflexive gesture to the pockets of the overlarge jacket he wore. His arms dropped to his side. "Mr. Tanner, I hope you have a key, otherwise the esteemed officer there will have the opportunity to arrest me for breakin’ into my own home.”

Vin fumbled in his pocket for his keys, clumsily sorting out the correct key. At least, he thought it was. His eyes followed Ezra’s to see the patrol car, lights off, parked in front of a familiar battered blue and white pickup. The sight of Buck’s vehicle affected him strongly. Shaking his head, he handed the keys to Ezra. “Go on ahead. I better tell ‘em who we are.”

Vin slowed as he approached the vehicle, knowing he was being watched through the mirrors. He carefully pulled out his identification, making it obvious it wasn’t a weapon. The young female officer had her window down and a flashlight ready to check the badge. The light flickered to Vin’s face, briefly blinding him, then switched off. “Agent Tanner.”

“Any problems?” he asked, remembering like an echo asking the same question of the patrol officer outside Buck’s place.

“It’s been quiet,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She reached for her radio. “HQ has tightened the security since...I’ll call in that you’re here. How long will you be staying?”

“Couple o’ hours.” Vin struggled with his bitterness. ‘Helluva lot a good having the Denver PD on guard did Buck.’ Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strode up the walkway to Ezra’s open doorway. His friend was standing in the entranceway reading what appeared to be a note. Vin carefully closed and locked the door behind him. “What’s that?” he asked.

Ezra folded the piece of paper in neat quarters. “A note from the cleaning woman. She took my bedspread to the cleaners.” A high-pitched laugh spilled from the southerner’s lips. “Poor Mrs. Seburn. She deserves extra for dealing with the mess my abode was no doubt in.”

Tired as he was, Vin knew hysteria when he heard in. He grabbed Ezra’s arm. “Ezra...go to bed.”

The other man swayed. “I need to make up the bed in the guest room,” he muttered faintly, protestingly. 

“I know where stuff is,” Vin assured him. “Goin’ t’ take a shower first, anyway.” He guided the other man down the hall toward the master bedroom. With the exception of the missing spread on the bed, the room looked as spotless as it had the other times Vin had seen it. There was a faint smell of furniture polish and carpet cleaner in the air. “I’m goin’ t’ borrow somethin’ to wear, okay?”

Ezra nodded, dropping on the bed. He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the triple dresser. “There should be...” his voice trailed off and he put his head down on the pillow. He was asleep before Vin found a pair of sweats in the bottom drawer. Like all of Ezra’s clothes, they looked brand-new. Throwing them over one shoulder, Vin went to the side of the bed. His muscles protesting, he pulled the other man upright and managed to wrestle him out of the Denver PD jacket. Ezra never flickered an eyelid. Shaking his head ruefully, Vin pulled off the too-large shoes and swung Ezra’s feet up on the bed. Reaching across, he pulled the blanket loose and tucked half of it over Ezra. He switched off the light and left the door open a few inches.

Exhaustion dogging his steps, he padded down the hall to the entranceway. Double-checking the lock and dead bolt, he had reached for the light switch when something caught his eye.

There had been an addition to the hall since the last time he’d visited. Now, on the marble-topped table, in addition to the prim floral arrangement in a Chinese bowl, there was a framed picture. Vin picked it up with an unsteady hand. He recognized the scene. The members of Team Seven were gathered around the grill, behind Chris’ house, each holding his beverage of choice in hand. The occasion had been Chris’ last birthday.

Vin cautiously touched Buck’s face. The ladies’ man had one arm thrown around JD’s shoulders and the other elbow leaning on Chris.

Carefully, almost reverently, Vin replaced the photo. Trembling fingers reached to click off the light switch.

 

Part 19

Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport  
Terminal C

Noises gradually filtered through to Nathan’s consciousness. Somewhere, nearby, a baby screamed unceasingly. There was a pop! and a crackle of static, then a too-calm masculine voice announced _“For your safety this airport practices heightened security measures. Please maintain control of your carry-on baggage at all times and notify Airport Security if someone places items in your luggage without your knowledge.”_

‘That’s stupid,’Nathan thought fuzzily. ‘If it’s done without your knowledge how can you report it to Security?’

Memory came rushing back to him and he sat upright with a start.

‘Ouch.’ His neck was stiff from the position he’d been sleeping in. Nathan looked around the crowded waiting area wildly. ‘Where’s JD?’

Then he saw the boy, standing with his back to the crowd, staring out the window where the first streaks dawn could be seen on the horizon. 

As if he’d felt Nathan’s gaze on his back, JD turned around and met his eyes. The younger man started back toward his friend, dodging around three giggling kids.

“Did you get any sleep?” Nathan asked. The medic was annoyed at himself for dropping off. One look at JD’s tense face answered his question even before the younger man shook his head. JD pushed his backpack off the seat next to Nathan and wearily dropped into it.

“Vin called,” he said quietly. “Buck made it through the surgery.”

Looking at him, Nathan knew there was more.

“He’s on a respirator.” JD sounded like the words were catching in his throat.

“That’s not really as bad as it sounds,” Nathan tried to reassure him. “Trauma like that...the body and brain go into shock. The respirator just helps take the strain off--“

“Yeah.” JD stared ahead at nothing. The nervous energy that had fueled the kid ever since Nathan had told him the news was gone now. JD was starting to fold in on himself. Nathan had seen it before and knew it wasn’t good.

“Who did it?” JD suddenly asked. Rage--more than rage--unfocused fury--burned in his eyes and strangled his words.

“I don’t know.” Nathan gripped JD’s shoulder. “Buck wouldn’t want you running off doing something stupid.”

“I’m stuck in this airport; it’s not like I can do anything. I’m not even with Buck and he might...die.” JD’s voice dropped on the last word. His face changed, grief replacing the rage. He looked at Nathan almost desperately.

Nathan would have given anything to be able to provide JD some comfort. Unfortunately the little information he had about Buck’s injuries wasn’t reassuring. All he could say was the truth. “Buck’s a fighter, JD. He won’t give up.” He changed the subject. “How’s Ezra?”

JD’s face relaxed a little. “He must be doing okay. He discharged himself from the hospital.”

“He did what?” Nathan leaned his head back. “Stubborn southern cuss,” he grumbled.

JD grinned weakly. “You know Ezra.”

“Yeah, I do. Wish I could say that surprised me.” ‘Actually I’m surprised he never tried that trick before. Course if he did it when I was around I’d pin his hide to the wall. Bet he knows it too.’

The intercom crackled again. ‘Passengers awaiting departure for flight 1235 non-stop service to Denver, please check in at Gate 35.”

 

Lakewood-Saint David’s Hospital  
Denver:

Craig Baker was due to get off duty at six a.m. He was more than ready. It had been a long shift in the ER, capped off when ATF Agent Ezra Standish had disconnected himself from the IV and cardiac monitor and blithely announced he was recovered and discharging himself. Baker had tried reasoning, bargaining, and even resorted to threats.

He had the distinct impression this last had his patient laughing at him.

The Federal big-wig--Montgomery or whatever the hell his name was--had tried to help. He’d even given Standish a direct order to remain in the hospital. Standish had responded with some flowery rhetoric that basically translated to “Jump on this and spin.”

After Standish had departed in his borrowed clothes, Montgomery had looked at Baker and shrugged. “Team Seven makes their own rules,” he’d said.

Baker’s pager went off. ‘Oh, shit, not an emergency. I really need to get out of here.’ Reluctantly he pulled it out and checked the extension, muttering a vague “thank you” that it wasn’t ER. Then he frowned. Grabbing the phone, he punched in the extension for the lab.

He recognized the voice that answered. “Patti, it’s Craig.” He and Patti Amons had moonlighted in the same research lab a couple of years back.

“Craig. You wanted to look at the latest labs on Standish in 4712? They’re pretty interesting.”

Baker sighed. “Mr. Standish discharged himself AMA a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh.” She sounded surprised. “You want me to send these down to Medical Records then?”

Baker fought a brief battle with himself. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to six. Ten more minutes and he could head for his apartment and a precious twelve hours off duty. He sighed, cursing his curiosity. One of his professors in medical school had said he was like a dog with a tasty bone when it came to diagnosis. “Hang on to them, Patti. I’m on my way down.”

Patti had a cup of coffee waiting for him when he walked into the lab, shivering since the place was always freezing. ‘The morgue has to be warmer than this place.’ She had the results of Standish’s most recent labs--drawn approximately an hour before his unscheduled departure--displayed on the computer, side-by-side with the previous results. 

Baker frowned, tired eyes flicking back and forth between the two reports. “Well, at least he was improving.”

Patti nodded. “But look at this.” She clicked a few keys. “I pulled this one up. Mrs. Martoli...she ate at Duchienne that same night.” 

Baker’s eyes widened as he saw what she was talking about. “That doesn’t make sense.” He pondered. “Pull up the results on a Buck Wilmington from earlier today. He was in...” he paused, “Room 4716.”

Patti typed a series of commands into the computer. A new screen came up. Without being asked, Patti displayed the three reports side by side. Studying them, she finally said, “Wilmington and Martoli had virtually identical profiles. Standish? Similar in some values but the key ones are completely different.”

“So Agent Standish had something more wrong with him than food poisoning. Question is...what?”

 

Intensive Care Unit  
University Medical Center:

~~Chris sat on the edge of the seat next to the bed, his eyes straying between the monitors above and the figure within. 

_Flashback_

"I'm sorry, Mr. Larabee. We can try to keep him as comfortable as possible. His organs are failing...it won't be much longer now."

Chris heard what the doctor said but didn't acknowledge it. His eyes drifted to the small, distorted face. He heard the soft click as the door closed, then opened and closed again. Without looking up, he knew Buck had come back into the room. The lanky ladies man sat back down in the chair in the corner where he kept his vigil. Chris didn't look at him. He couldn't look away from the burned body of his only child.

Early that morning, when it had become obvious to the medical staff that nothing they could do was going to save the child, they had increased his painkillers. For the first time in four days, Adam rested. Even in the depths of the drugged sleep he occasionally whimpered, but the terrible throat searing screams had stopped. Chris was grateful for that, but selfishly he wished his son could know he was there with him. He wanted to look in the child's eyes one more time before they closed forever.

With nothing to do but look at the still figure and listen to the gradually slowing beep of the cardiac monitor, Chris gradually became aware of other things he had blocked out over the last four days. Life and death in the living hell of the burn unit. Screams. Sobbing. Not all from children like Adam. 

The nauseating smell of burned flesh.

The peculiar look on the faces of the staff: compassionate but reserved. Sympathy buried miles under a cool professional persona. Check your emotions at the door.

Chris looked over at Buck. The man was hunched over in his chair, head hanging down, praying maybe? His hands were clasped loosely.

'Too late for prayers, Buck,' Chris thought bitterly. 'We were too late. Too late for anything...too late for everything...'

Adam's breathing faltered. Chris' eyes flew back to his son.

The alarm on the cardiac monitor sounded for the last time.

_End Flashback_

 

Chris' eyes snapped open, the death-knell of the alarm echoing through his memory. He was standing up, leaning over the bed anxiously, before he realized the alarm had sounded only in his dreams. Buck's monitors still traced a steady pattern.

Wearily Chris dropped back into the chair. Almost automatically he slid his hand back over Buck's. 

Stable.

That was how the doctor had described Buck's condition last time he came in. Critical but stable.

Alive, but not. Suspended halfway in between the world of the living and the world of the dead.

Something changed. The hand clasped in his moved slightly, the fingers curling just barely around his.

"Buck?" Chris breathed, leaning forward. "Can you hear me?"

Slight flicker of eyelashes on the bruised cheekbones.

"That's it. Come on, Big Dog...wake up for me," Chris coaxed gently. He tightened his grip on Buck's hand.

 

Tired. He was so tired. Just wanted to sleep...drift away...

But something was keeping him here. An anchor, gripping his hand. A voice he knew...but the tone was wrong...something was wrong.

Chris...

 

The door opened and the nurse walked in. Chris spared her a quick glance. "I think he's startin' to wake up."

The nurse stepped closer to the bed and studied the monitors. "I'll page the doctor." She left quickly.

Chris watched, hardly daring to breathe, as Buck's eyelids flickered again. Flickered and finally opened. Dazed blue eyes drifted around the room before coming to rest on Chris. The grip of the hand on his fractionally tightened.

Chris felt a wave of relief so strong he almost fell forward out of the chair. He closed his eyes briefly, coughed to clear his throat. "Hey, Pard, about time," he said gently.

Buck's eyes widened. Panic leapt into them. His face contorted as his body feebly struggled.

The door slammed open again for the nurse. "He's fighting the respirator," she announced, leaning over the bed. "Mr. Wilmington, you need to relax."

Buck didn't even look at her, his frightened eyes on Chris. Standing up, Chris put his free hand on Buck's forehead and leaned close. "Buck, it's all right. Don't fight it. They've got a tube in your throat to help you breathe. Just relax and breathe with it. Don't try to fight it." To the nurse, he growled, "Get back."

She didn't argue, stepping away from the bed. Chris shifted his attention back to Buck. He vaguely realized he was pitching his own breathing to match the rhythmic pumping of the machine.

Slowly the look of panic eased. Buck kept his eyes glued on Chris until they flickered closed again.

~~~~

Vin sleepily opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling above.

'Where the hell...'

He shifted on the leather couch and set up a chorus of screaming protest from a million nerve endings. He groaned.

With the pain came the return of memory. Vin looked around wildly. Bright late-morning light streamed through the windows into Ezra's living room. "Shit!" he said aloud, trying to sit up. "Buck!"

Ezra appeared in the archway leading to the kitchen. "Mr.Tanner? Are you awake?"

"Damn it, Ez, that's a stupid question." Groaning and sweating, Vin made it to a sitting position on the couch. He stared balefully at Ezra as the other man came closer. Ezra's hair was damp from a shower, he was dressed casually--for Ezra--in khaki slacks and a pale yellow shirt. With the exception of his marked pallor, he looked well rested and a lot better than Vin felt. Groaning again, the sharpshooter swung his feet to the floor. "Shit, I feel like a building fell on me," he said without thinking.

"Well...that is a fair approximation of what actually occurred," Ezra pointed out. "Mr. Larabee called. Mr. Wilmington woke up briefly."

Vin let out his breath in a great sigh and leaned his head back. "That's good, ain't it?"

"Mr. Larabee did seem relieved. Mr. Wilmington is still critical, but his condition has stabilized. I daresay if we offer to relieve our esteemed leader of his vigil temporarily, he might actually agree to getting some sleep."

Vin nodded, trying to stretch without moving any muscles...an impossible task. A shrill whistle sounded from the kitchen. Ezra hopped up nimbly and padded in that direction. "Tea, Mr. Tanner?" His voice drifted behind him. 

With difficulty Vin followed him. "Not if it's that herbal crap you drink," he said suspiciously. "Got any coffee?"

Ezra looked up from pouring steaming water into a china teapot. He shook his head. "I'm embarrassed to admit I seem to be out," he admitted. He reached up into a cupboard next to the sink. "I do, however, have ibuprofen." He set the small white bottle on the table next to a glass of orange juice. "And orange juice."

Vin opened the bottle and dumped three pills in his hand, swallowing them with the chilled juice. He watched Ezra pouring the greenish-yellow tea into a dainty cup that matched the teapot, and shook his head. "Ez, why don't you just dump a bag in a mug?"

They'd had this conversation before. Ezra responded as expected. "Appearances, Mr. Tanner, are everything." He sipped the steaming beverage and sighed happily.

Vin shook his head. "I need a hot shower."

"I took the liberty of putting some items of wearin' apparel for you in the hall bathroom." Ezra took another sip. "And a razor."

Vin paused to throw a grin over his shoulder. "Thanks...that but don't make up for you not havin' any coffee."

 

The blue jeans Ezra had left for him were so stiff Vin had to wonder if they'd ever been worn, much less washed. They weren't the greatest fit in the world but they would do. Vin looked around but the clothes he had been wearing the night before were missing. His shoes and jacket were where he'd left them though. Ezra had left him two designer shirts to choose from and a blue sweater Casey had picked out for JD to give Ezra the Christmas before. Vin had never seen Ezra wear it and when he looked at it he could see why. It was a size too big for Vin which made it definitely too large for Ezra. Vin pulled it over his head. 

Ezra had poured the rest of his tea into a travel mug and was ready to go when Vin came down the hall. The hot shower had loosened tight muscles and Tanner was starting to think he might actually survive. As Ezra locked the door behind them, Vin glanced over at the police car at the curb. He stood stock-still as the idea came to him. 

"Vin?" Ezra looked at him, concerned. 

"Just thought of somethin'." Vin jogged to the street, a puzzled Ezra trailing behind. The officer stepped out of his car as they approached. "Agent Tanner," he said, nodding his head. His eyes flickered to Ezra. "Agent Standish."

It was the same officer who'd been on duty outside Buck's place the day before.

Vin blinked. In a way, that was good. He rushed into his question. "Are you guys keepin' logs of who all comes around here?"

The officer didn't ask why he wanted to know. He reached into the car and pulled out his notebook. "Here, we just kept a record of who actually went into Mr. Standish's apartment or the two on either side of it. Well, until yesterday--then the order came down to keep notes on all comings and goings and to call in if anyone actually went to Mr. Standish's door. Mr. Wilmington...since that was an internal access building we kept records on everyone that went in or out. The detectives have them now. And I think they made a copy for the Feds...for your guys."


	4. Chapter Four (Parts 20-24)

Chapter Four

 

Part 20

Chris looked up as Buck shifted again. He stood up, ready to move into Buck’s line of vision. His friend had woken three times since that first time early this morning. Each time he had started to panic when he registered the invasive tube in his throat, realized his breathing was not his to control. Each time Chris had managed to calm him but it was taking longer as Buck became more aware. He also seemed to be in a lot of pain. They were having to be careful how much pain medication to give him in order not to depress his system any further. Chris understood that but it was hard for him to see Buck so uncomfortable.

Buck also seemed to be trying to tell Chris something but Chris couldn’t figure out what it was. He’d reassured Buck that Ezra and Vin were okay; told him JD and Nathan were on the way back from Florida (he still hadn’t been able to reach Josiah which didn’t really surprise him. That area of Mexico was notorious for “dead” zones). Buck’s were glazed with pain and shock but he kept trying to communicate something to his old friend. 

Chris was helpless and he hated it.

He looked up as the door opened and Dr. Culver came in again. He glanced at Chris and then stepped to Buck’s side. “The nurse says he’s agitated,” he said in a low voice.

“Keeps gettin’ that way when he tries to wake up,” Chris admitted.

Culver finished examining Buck and stepped back, frowning. “We’ve increased his pain medication but he seems to be fighting it.” He gestured to the broken leg, encased in plaster and slightly suspended. “That’s a bad break...not even considering his other injuries. And then there’s the respirator.”

“He doesn’t like that much.”

“I don’t imagine he does, but I don’t want to try to wean him off yet. He’s lucky only three ribs were broken, but they’re on the same side as the lung that collapsed.” Culver looked up and studied Chris’ face. “Mr. Larabee, you need to take a break.”

Chris felt his spine stiffen. “No.” It was curt.

“You won’t help him if you collapse.”

“I won’t.”

Culver narrowed his eyes. “You know I could have you forcibly removed.”

If it was meant as a threat, it backfired. Exhaustion cleared the path for anger. Chris eyes flashed green fire as he growled, “You don’t want to try that.”

Culver held up a calming hand. “Let’s not get into a pissing match, okay? Believe it or not, I am not the enemy. Yours or his.”

The anger ebbed, leaving Chris feeling drained. “I know that,” he admitted tiredly. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. Part of him knew the doctor was right--he had to get some rest, but every time he closed his eyes the nightmares came.

And he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Buck alone.

There was a tap on the door and it opened. Chris looked up to see the very welcome form of Vin Tanner step in. “Hey, Cowboy,” he greeted Chris, blue eyes in his swollen face keenly assessing him. A slight grin quirked his lips. “To quote you...you look like shit.”

“I just made the same diagnosis,” Culver said dryly. He started to leave. “Please consider getting some sleep, Mr. Larabee, before I have to pick you up off the floor in order to reach Mr. Wilmington.”

“He’s right, you know,” Vin said quietly after the door closed. He walked to the head of the bed, resting a gentle hand on Buck’s shoulder. “Hey, Bucklin.”

Chris quickly looked at Buck’s face. There was a flicker of movement but he didn’t wake up. Feeling worn out, Chris dropped back into the chair. “Where’s Ezra?”

“He’s out in the waitin’ room. AD Travis and that Montgomery fella are here too. Want to talk to you, said they want to update you on the status of the case. Team Three arrested Hoyt and his guys this mornin’ but Hoyt’s swearin’ he didn’t have anything to do with bombing Buck’s place and his lawyer’s tryin’ to get him released again.”

A spurt of fresh anger gave Chris energy. “What?” He growled. He hadn’t thought too much about Hoyt during the long night, but now the thought of the arms dealer was enough to give him a focus for his rage. ‘Montgomery, too. I owe that SOB a punch in the jaw for letting Ezra find out what was going on.’

He looked at Vin. “You’ll stay with Buck for a few minutes?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Make it longer, get yourself some sleep. And Ezra’s got you some coffee; we stopped on the way in.”

‘Coffee.’ Coffee was good. Caffeine would help to clear his head. “I don’t want to be gone too long, Buck gets real agitated...”

Vin snorted. “Hell, Chris, he’s probably seein’ you and thinkin’ the worst. You look bad, Cowboy.”

Angry words came to Chris’s lips, but he stopped them with an effort and considered what Vin had said. ‘Maybe,’ he thought reluctantly. He nodded. “You come get me if he needs me.”

Vin gestured for him to leave. “Better get out there ‘fore Ez gets himself suspended--don’t think he’s real high on Montgomery’s list right now.”

~+~+~+~

Ezra took the last swallow of cooling tea from his travel mug and sat it on the floor at his feet. He flipped through the sheets of paper he held in his hand--Xerox copies of the police surveillance logs on his and Buck’s homes.

Nearby, AD Travis was talking with Chris about the status of the investigation into the bombing. Marcus Hoyt’s attorney was raising Cain downtown about his client’s arrest, trying to say there was no evidence linking Hoyt to the bombing and therefore he should remain free while awaiting trial on the illegal arms sale charges. 

“We don’t know for sure Hoyt was behind it,” Montgomery pointed out. 

Chris Larabee fixed him with a poisonous glare. Ezra struggled to suppress a grin: he knew that look well. “Who the hell else could it be?”

“Your team has a high ‘case solved’ rate,” Montgomery pointed out. “That tends to piss people off. Not to mention your winning personalities.” He pointed at Ezra. “Standish, here, probably has a personal enemies list longer than Nixon’s.”

Chris’ eyes flicked to Ezra. “What about the bombs?” He choked a little on the last word. Ezra looked at him in concern. He could tell his boss was exhausted, but he knew Larabee well enough to know he wouldn’t want to show any weakness in front of Travis or Montgomery.

“They were the work of a pro. Deliberately designed to do minimum collateral damage, but more than enough to kill the one that set them off.”

“But they didn’t kill,” Ezra said, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

“Wilmington is a explosives expert," Montgomery stated, like Chris and Ezra didn't know that. "He probably realized he’d set off the fuse and jumped back a few steps.”

Ezra winced. He hated the thought that Buck had realized what was about to happen. Although if it ended up saving his life...“I didn’t mean Mr. Wilmington. I meant the device the Bomb Squad found in my own abode.”

All three of the other men frowned. “What about it?” Chris said impatiently. “You were in the hospital.” His eyes narrowed. “We didn’t even know where you were, there was no way Hoyt could have.”

“Possibly true,” Ezra admitted, “But once the explosion occurred at Mr. Wilmington’s, any miscreant with half of his gray matter intact should have realized my home would be searched. Likewise, had the bomb at my home been the first to be detonated, Mr. Wilmington’s home would be searched. It just seems to me that a ‘professional’ wouldn’t have been so lax.”

“He has a point there,” Travis admitted.

“And I believe I may have deduced how someone gained admittance to my home.” Ezra held up the sheet of paper he’d been reading. “At approximately nine-thirty yesterday morning, a van bearing the logo ‘City Professional Cleaning Service’ parked in front of my building and a man wearing a white coverall carrying what was assumed to be cleaning equipment gained entrance into my apartment. The officer on duty started to inquire into his bona fides, when he ran across the maintenance man for the complex, who confirmed I did have a cleaning person that always came on Wednesday.” Ezra held up another sheet. “However, my cleaning woman, Mrs. Seburn, comes on Wednesday afternoons, not mornings--and as a matter of fact, she did arrive at 1 p.m.--by which time the bogus cleaning person had already departed.”

Chris frowned. “Sloppy police work,” he growled. “He took a chance, though, the police should have at least noticed him fumbling with the lock. Your cleaning woman has a key, doesn’t she?”

“She does. However, if one thinks about the circumstances of my departure from my home on Tuesday--with Mr. Wilmington in attendance--it stands to reason he didn’t lock the dead bolt or set the security system. The standard lock on the on the front door is flimsy. I could pick it in under twenty seconds--indeed, I have. Someone not watching that closely could be forgiven for supposing the impersonator was simply fumbling for the correct key.”

“Did the same cleaning service show up at Wilmington’s building?” Montgomery asked.

Ezra shuffled through the other stack of papers and shook his head. His mouth was suddenly very dry. ‘Dr. Baker did instruct me to drink voluminous amounts of fluids today.’ Picking up his mug, he remembered there was a water fountain out in the hallway.

 

Montgomery flicked his eyes at Chris as the southerner left the waiting room. “For the record, Larabee, I did try to make Standish stay in the hospital. I even resorted to giving him a direct order.” He gestured. “You can see how much good that did.”

Travis chortled. “Mr. Standish doesn’t respond well to orders,” he said ruefully. 

“He wouldn’t have tried to leave if he hadn’t overheard you talking about Buck,” Chris snapped, although he knew if the idea had occurred to Ezra he would have done it anyway. He mentally grinned at the thought Ezra might try the same move the next time he was hospitalized. ‘Won’t work, Standish,’ he gloated. ‘I’ll handcuff you to the bed if I have to. You know it, too.’

 

Out in the hallway, Ezra uncharacteristically gulped cold water from the fountain, then filled his mug. He took a few steps back toward the waiting room, then went back to the fountain for more water. Not only was his mouth dry as dust, his throat burned as well. ‘Must be from that oxygen they had me on in the hospital,’ he thought.

He dismissed any more thought about it from his mind and returned to the waiting room.

“Chris!”

Everyone looked up at Vin Tanner’s voice. “Come quick!” He disappeared back into the double doors leading to ICU. Larabee was right behind him and Ezra followed.

~+~+~+~

Vin leaned forward. Buck had been quiet since Chris had left but now he was starting to shift restlessly again. Eyelashes fluttered and he moved his head back and forth, grimacing around the respirator tube.

"Easy, Buck, relax," Vin said, keeping a reassuring hand on Buck's shoulder. He remembered waking up with a tube in his throat after getting shot once. It hurt like hell, worse than the gunshot wound.

Buck's eyes snapped open. He looked at Vin and relaxed for just a moment, then started struggling harder as his eyes darted wildly around the room.

"Easy, easy," Vin breathed. "Chris is okay. He's just out in the waitin' room."

That didn't seem to calm the patient. He couldn't move much of his body but what he could he was moving violently. One hand reached up and tried to grab the respirator.

"Buck! No!" Vin grabbed his hand.

The cardiac monitor started beeping wildly. The door crashed open and two nurses ran in. "What happened?" one demanded of Vin.

"He's upset about somethin'." Vin kept trying to soothe Buck but he could tell the other man wasn't even hearing him. Buck's eyes kept flitting wildly around; the dark blue orbs were panicked.

Vin knew what he had to do. With a last squeeze of Buck's shoulder, he slipped out the door as another nurse came in. He ran out to the waiting room.

"Chris! Come quick!"

~+~+~+~

He struggled to open his eyes. He was so tired...it would be so easy to let go...but something kept bothering him. Something important...

Twisted wire. Three strands. Red, black, yellow. Coiled at the top...

Bomb!

Seen it before...seen it somewhere...

Tired...so tired...

Have to wake up. Have to tell them...have to tell Chris.

Have to wake up...

Can’t breathe...choking!

Chris!

 

Part 21

A nurse stood in Buck’s doorway, barring the way. “You can’t come in here right now. Please go to the waiting room,” she said firmly. “Someone will be out to speak to you momentarily.”

“Like hell,” Chris snapped. He started forward but Ezra grabbed his arm. “Chris...”

Chris kept moving, and the nurse--apparently realizing she would move or be moved, stepped out of his way. Chris went in and Ezra followed.

The tiny room was crammed with people. Vin stood against the wall, his eyes glued to the bed.

It didn't take a medical degree to see the monitors were going wild.

Buck was fighting the staff. As Chris stepped closer, he saw his friend's hand come up and close on the respirator tube. Culver grabbed the hand. "Nurse, get some restraints!"

"NO!" Chris exploded. 

"Agent Larabee," Culver started in a tone that suggested his patience was about exhausted.

"You don't tie him down," Chris insisted. He pushed between two nurses who were barring his access to his friend and cradled Buck's face in his hands. "Buck. Buck, listen to me. You need to calm down."

Buck's anguished blue eyes fixed on his. The plea for help was clear. His free hand started toward the tube and Chris barely caught him before he grabbed it. IV lines tangled with monitor wires in a hopeless snarl. 

"Buck, the tube has to stay in. Just relax and let it help you breathe--"

Buck’s eyes flickered wildly. Pulling Chris' hand with his, he touched the respirator tube, then looked at Chris.

Another nurse had come into the room. This one had a syringe clutched in her hand which she handed to Culver. He reached for the IV line.

Buck's eyes followed him, then looked back at Chris desperately. 

"Hold up a second," Chris said.

"He has got to calm down!" Culver sounded as pissed as Chris felt.

"Wait!" Chris leaned over Buck. "Buck, if you don't calm down they're going to give you sedation. You won't be able to talk to me. That's what's wrong, isn't it? You've got somethin' you have to tell me?"

Relief sparkled in Buck's exhausted eyes, smoothed the anxious lines on his face. He leaned back into the pillow, nodding slightly. Then his eyes flickered over all the faces surrounding him and he tensed up again. Chris turned, but before he could order everyone to move back Culver did it for him. Chris tossed the doctor a grateful look and turned back to Buck, wrapping the injured man's hands in both of his own. "Buck, they can't take the tube out yet, Pard. What do you need to say? Is there something you need me to do?"

Buck shook his head, wincing as the tube irritated his throat. His intent eyes never left Chris' face, as if he could communicate by sheer will power alone.

Chris wanted to scream with frustration, but he very carefully kept any sign of what he was feeling from his face.

"I have an idea." Ezra spoke up. He slipped out of the room and quickly came back with a couple of pieces of paper. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he scribbled quickly for several seconds, then held the paper in front of Buck. "Buck, can you see this?"

He'd written the alphabet in neat lines. Buck's eyes left Chris to focus on the paper. Understanding lit his eyes and he feebly tried to pull his hand from Chris' grasp.

Chris shot a look at the surgeon, half-expecting the man would try to stop what was going on. Culver just shook his head and waved a hand. "Apparently he's not going to relax until he tells you what's on his mind."

Buck lifted his hand with an effort and touched the paper. "B?" Ezra asked. Buck nodded faintly. His whole body was tense with the effort he was expending. He hit the paper again. Ezra frowned. "P?...no, O?"

Vin moved closer to the foot of the bed. Chris stepped forward so he could rest his hand on Buck's shoulder. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his friend's body; felt how he was trembling. The cardiac monitor continued to beep wildly until someone reached over to silence it.

Ezra's attention was all on Buck as the patient struggled to move his hand for the third time. "L?" Ezra finally said, his voice questioning. Buck barely nodded.

"B-O-L," murmured Vin. Buck looked at him, then back at the paper. His arm was trembling so violently he couldn't seem to control the movement. He flicked a desperate glance at Chris.

Somehow knowing what was needed, Chris slipped his hand down to clasp Buck's hand in his own. "Okay, Cowboy," he coached gently. "I'm goin' to hold on to you."

With Chris stabilizing his hand, Buck moved his fingers forward again. "M," Ezra said.

"B-O-L-M?" Vin questioned. He frowned. "Bag balm" was the first thing he could think of but he somehow couldn't manage Buck getting so agitated about that stuff. "Bomb, ya think? Ya tryin' to tell us there was a bomb, Buck?"

Chris hadn't taken his eyes from Buck's face. "No," he said. "We've got something wrong." 

Ezra held up his hand. "Buck, was the last letter 'M'?"

It was obvious Buck's scant store of strength was rapidly being exhausted. His eyes flickered and closed. With an obvious effort he opened them again. He managed to move his head slightly. 

"Not 'M'," Vin stated. He frowned.

"Buck..." Chris started, worrying how this was going to affect the injured man. He was very aware of Culver behind him with the syringe.

Buck seemed to summon up his energy. His face taut with the effort, obviously trying not to fight the breathing apparatus, he pushed his and Chris' joined hands one more time. 

"O," Chris said quietly.

"O?" Ezra repeated.

Buck's eyes lit up. The tension suddenly drained from his body and limply fell back into the pillows. His eyes closed. 

"Buck!" Chris yelled, panicking.

"No, it's all right." Culver held up his hand, his eyes studying the monitor. The cardiac rhythm was slowing down. "I think he just wore himself out. He's asleep."

Chris sighed, suddenly feeling as limp as spaghetti. His free hand tightened around the bed rail. For a second the room swam around him.

"Bolo Orlowski!" Vin almost shouted. "Son of a bitch!"

~+~+~+~

"So who--or what--is Bolo Orlowski?" Ezra said, his voice irritated. He looked around the waiting room. "Dear Lord, what taste-impaired cretin decorated this hospital?" he muttered, half to himself.

Vin, suddenly energized, paced across the room. "Bomber, Ezra...one of the best in the business. Maybe the best...suspected in over a hundred attacks in the last twenty years...only brought to trial once. An' that case was declared a mistrial halfway through."

"My God, Mr. Tanner," Ezra said testily. "Do you peruse Most Wanted posters in your free time? Let a miscreant come within a hundred miles of Denver and Vin Tanner knows his entire criminal history!" He wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his hand, then snatched his travel mug off the floor and stalked out of the waiting room.

Vin ignored the southerner's sudden bad temper. He sat down next to Chris. "What I can't figure--why would Buck think Bolo was involved here?"

Chris had been slumped on one of the shapeless sofas, staring up at the ceiling. "Buck was on the bomb squad here in Denver for awhile," he said quietly.

Vin stared at him as Ezra came back in carrying his mug full of water. "I didn't know about that. He don't talk about it." Wilmington was the team demolitions expert but he'd never mentioned how his knowledge had come about. 

"I was under the impression you and Mr. Wilmington were partners throughout your tenure with the Denver constabulary," Ezra commented, taking a drink from his mug.

"We were. I left to join the ATF a year before he did." He saw both of the others looking at him and realized they'd never heard this part of the story before. "We both knew Travis from him bein' a judge in Denver. He'd just been tapped to take over the AD position and he already had an idea for a 'special' team. It was after--" he hesitated. "Anyway I needed a change. Buck and I--" he stopped again, then shrugged. "Buck had done some demolitions when we were in the SEALS. Captain Natoli--Cap'n Nate, Buck called him--knew Buck from back then. He never let up on him to join the squad. I think he knew he was goin' to be retiring soon and wanted Buck to take over." Chris shrugged again. "So Buck transferred out of Major Crimes. Stayed on the bomb squad until Travis finally got the okay from the big boys in Washington for me to form Team Seven."

Vin and Ezra both nodded. They knew Wilmington had been the first person Chris recruited.

Chris closed his eyes. "I need coffee."

"You need sleep, Cowboy," Vin responded. "Or at least somethin' to eat. Come'n, let's go down to the cafeteria. I'll call Montgomery and have him pass on about Bolo to Team Three." He stood up. "You comin', Ez?"

Ezra shook his head. "I'm not hungry. I'll keep Mr. Wilmington company until your return.

"You sure?" Vin asked, suddenly concerned. As far as he knew, Ezra hadn't eaten anything since discharging himself from the hospital. He studied the Southerner. 'He's kinda flushed.' "You feelin' okay, Ez?"

Ezra's eyes flashed. He opened his mouth, then seemed to catch himself. After a moment, he said, "I'm fine, Mr. Tanner. I just haven’t yet been able to rid my system of the aftereffects of those cursed drugs they injected me with at the hospital."

Chris stood up with an effort. “If Buck wakes up again... or if anything happens--“

“I will come retrieve you immediately,” Ezra said.

Before anyone could move, though, Vin’s cell phone rang. He yanked it out of his pocket. “Tanner.” 

It was Nathan, calling to tell him JD had managed to get a seat on the flight just leaving Dallas for Denver. Nathan himself was still stuck in Dallas but someone needed to pick up JD at the airport.

Chris and Vin went to the hospital cafeteria for a quick bite to eat, then Ezra and Vin both left in Ezra’s Jag to pick up Buck’s pickup. The keys had been with his belongings at the hospital. Vin would then go on to the airport. 

Chris returned to the ICU to find Buck still sleeping.

Chris sank back down in the chair. He yawned and rubbed his eyes tiredly. God he was exhausted! It seemed like this ordeal had been going on for weeks instead of just a couple of days. He knew he was going to have to get some sleep soon but between being afraid to leave Buck for more than a few minutes and the nightmares he'd been having every time he closed his eyes, sleep was in rare supply.

He looked over at Buck's face, pleased to see his friend seemed to be resting more peacefully and wasn't fighting the respirator. Then he leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. Being here--in this hospital--with his oldest friend so near death had brought memories of the dark past dangerously close.

He was painfully aware he'd lied to Vin and Ezra. Well, not lied exactly but he hadn't told them the whole truth. The truth was Buck had taken the transfer to the bomb squad before Chris had decided to leave the police department. Chris could still remember the sickening lurch in his stomach the morning Buck had told him. He'd turned on Buck with the ready anger that sent the hurtful words to his tongue. By that time Buck had heard them all many times before. He just regarded Chris quietly with those dark blue eyes that held nothing but love and loyalty, no matter what Chris did or said. But this time there had been something else in those eyes, something Chris didn't recognize. Was afraid to recognize, knowing deep inside he was the one that had put it there.

He and Buck never spoke about those dark months after Sarah and Adam's deaths. Chris had been on leave for six months. Technically Buck had been working their caseload during that time, but Buck's real assignment--with the blessing of his superiors--was to keep his best friend from completely destroying himself. To be the one person who stood between a maddened, enraged, frequently drunken Chris Larabee and the rest of the world. When Chris had stopped trying to find his solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle every night, he'd turned with blind rage to trying to find who was responsible for the murders. Buck was there--right there--beside him, behind him, in front of him--wherever he needed to be, helping Chris track down every lead, no matter how slight.

But really there were no leads--none that panned out--anyway. The murders of Sarah Larabee and Adam Larabee were still unsolved. Unsolved murders are never "closed," but they do eventually have to be considered "cold." Chris knew that, knew that the case was kept on the "active" list for months longer than it would normally have been, because of who the victims were. But eventually time and resources could no longer be devoted to it.

The day his captain had to reluctantly tell him the case was being classified as "cold," Chris had embarked on a drunken rampage unlike any he'd done since the very early days after the funerals. To this day he wasn't sure exactly where he'd gone or what he'd done--or how he'd managed to stay out of jail or the morgue, although he assumed he had Buck to thank for that. His next clear memory had been nine days later, waking up in the spare room of Buck's apartment. His stomach felt like someone had taken steel wool to it, his head throbbed and his mouth tasted like a whole herd of cows had died in it. Chris had rolled out of bed, thinking seriously about heading for the nearest bar or bottle--and had stopped dead when he saw the picture on the bedside table. His wife regarded him steadily from inside the marbled jade frame. Somehow it seemed like her eyes could see right though him--and Chris was afraid--and ashamed--of what she would be seeing. Instead of heading for another drink, he headed for a cold shower and the coffee Buck had waiting.

Chris Larabee would have dark days and weeks again, but never would he so completely surrender to his demons as he had during that nine days. He'd turned a corner on the road to healing that morning--standing in his boxers with the filth of days and nights on his unshaven face, looking at his wife's picture.

Five days later Buck had told him about the transfer. Chris punched him. It wasn't the first time, and--unfortunately--it wouldn't be the last. 

Three weeks after that Chris had taken Orrin Travis up on his offer to join the ATF.

Chris had never apologized to Buck for everything he'd put him through during those times. He knew--hell, better than anyone--that the only reason he was still alive, much less sane--was because of Buck Wilmington. They didn't discuss it. It wasn't Chris' way. It wasn't Buck's way. Deeds spoke much louder than words to men like them. The friendship that had started in their reckless younger--that had blossomed through years of watching each others back on the streets and been tested through the depths of Hell--still endured. Changed some, as they were no longer two standing alone together, but now standing with five others. Buck had ceded his place at Chris' right hand to Vin. He'd done it with an unselfishness and a love that Chris could only marvel at. Buck himself had a little brother and a best friend in young JD Dunne. 

But now, sitting next to his friend--only able to wait and pray that he would live--Chris felt he had to say the words. "Don't leave, Buck," he murmured, feeling tears choking his throat and spilling down his cheeks. "Please don't leave. I'm not ready for you to go. Hell, Buck, I'm never going to be ready for you to go. And I don't think you're ready to go, either. You've got JD to worry about, remember? Hope you don't think you can leave me alone to finish raisin' that one!" He paused, searching the still face for some sign he was being heard. "Y'know Buck--there were a lot of times I told you to get out--before. You never left then no matter what I did. And you know--I never really wanted you to, not really, not inside where it counted.

"So don't think you're going to leave now."

~+~+~+~

There was a slight change in plans when they got to Ezra's. Watching Vin wince as his abused muscles had stiffened even during the drive from the hospital, Ezra suggested Vin take the Jag to the airport while he himself drove Buck's battered old truck to the hospital.

Vin stared at him. "You're goin' ta let me drive your car?"

"You've driven it before," Ezra pointed out.

"Not when you've been around to stop me," Vin volleyed back.

Ezra sighed. "I am willing to trust your driving skills under these circumstances." He tossed Vin the key, then gave him a little grin. "You could let Mr. Dunne drive back from the airport."

Vin had to laugh. For some reason, JD was the only one of the team Ezra really trusted to drive his car. Vin would never admit it--he was stubbornly loyal to his ancient Jeep even if more and more he rode his motorcycle--but he did love to drive the Jag. It drove like silk.

~+~+~+~

Ezra made a point of turning away when Vin pulled out into the street--half afraid Tanner would run the stop sign just to spite him--and then glanced over at Buck's pickup. Instead of getting in, though, he waved at the police officer on guard duty and headed up the walkway to his apartment.

It felt overly warm inside and he shoved the thermostat down as he walked past on his way to the kitchen. Usually he found springtime in Denver to be unbearably chilly, but today he'd been warm in the hospital, hot in the car driving home and now he was sweltering. He peeled off his jacket and uncharacteristically left it on the arm of a chair. Then he went to the sink and turned on the cold water, scooping handfuls of it over his hair and sweaty face before dampening a towel to hold to the back of his neck.

The burning in his throat hadn't lessened as the day went on. Ezra opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. It was less than a third full and he gulped it down then looked for more. That, however, appeared to be the last bottle.

'Oh well, I've got the filtered water.' Two months before Ezra had purchased a "water purifier" for the kitchen tap. The salesman had sworn it would pay for itself in a week by eliminating the need to buy bottled water, but Ezra still did. He liked the filtered water for making tea and other beverages though. It was better than tasting the minerals and chemicals in the city water supply even if it didn't compare to his favorite brand of bottled water. The other guys had made fun of the purchase and Vin especially took a point to flip the cartridge "off" when he got water from Ezra's sink.

Ezra filled the bottle and then, carrying it with him, went to his bedroom to see if he could find something cooler to wear. They kept that hospital so overheated...must be what was causing his headache. He'd take some ibuprofen before he left to go back to the hospital.

 

Part 22

Craig Baker tumbled heavily into bed and slept like the dead for five hours. But then, just like clicking on a light switch, he was awake again. He sat upright in the bed, exclaiming aloud, "Tee Twenty Seven! How the hell would he manage to get hold of that?"

 

Denver International Airport:

Vin leaned against the wall and watched the passengers disembarking from the Dallas flight. He expected JD to be one of the first people off--having flown with him before. Vin and JD usually knocked each other over trying to get off the plane, Vin because small spaces made him itchy, and JD because sitting still had the same effect on him.

Vin pushed himself away from the wall when he got a glimpse of the slight figure hovering impatiently behind an elderly woman who stopped in the middle of the path to embrace a couple of toddlers who acted as if they weren’t too sure who she was. Muttering, "'Scuse me," JD sidled around her, his dark eyes searching the crowd until he spotted Vin. Fear crossed his face and he appeared to be holding his breath as he blurted out, "How is he?"

'He's scared to death,' Vin realized. He pulled the kid close in an uncharacteristic hug. "He's goin' t' be okay, JD," he said in the younger man's ear. "Buck won't leave us. Hell, today he even told us who the bomber was."

JD pushed away, his face alight. Vin misunderstood the reason until the kid breathed, "He's off the respirator?"

Vin could have kicked himself. He shook his head, hating the way JD's face fell and the lines of fear and anxiety dropped back into place. He touched JD's arm and started to lead him toward Baggage Claim. "The doc is wantin' to be cautious about that," he said. "Buck hates the thing, but it's givin' his body a rest."

"I know," JD sighed. "Nathan said that, too." He followed a half-step behind Vin, backpack slung over one shoulder, dark circles of fatigue marking his pale face. Suddenly he stopped. "Wait. You said he knew who planted the bomb?"

Vin turned to face him. "Seems like. Spelled out a name."

"Who? What name?" JD's voice was a feral snarl and Vin was suddenly, forcefully reminded that even a young wolf would fight to protect his pack.

Still, he'd never slight JD by lying to him. "He spelled out Bolo. I'm guessin' it's Bolo Orlowski. You ever heard of him?"

JD frowned thoughtfully. "The name's familiar...oh, I know. Some guy was over not too long ago. I don't know his name, Buck just called him Cap'n Nate." In spite of everything JD grinned at the nickname. "Right before Buck and Ezra went under on the Hoyt case, like the Sunday before. I remember cause we were gonna go out to Chris' place and ride the horses, and then this guy called that morning and Buck said he had to talk to him. He told me to go on but I hung around for while. But it was really obvious Buck didn't want me to hear too much. They ended up goin' out for a beer together. I asked Buck later what was so hush-hush and he said it was just something about an old case. I didn't hear too much of what they said but I did hear that name. Bolo Orlowski. I remembered ‘cause I had a friend in high school, his last name was Orlow but everybody kidded around and called him Orlowski."

Vin frowned. Something weird was going on. He'd always thought Buck to be the most open of them, the one with no secrets--save maybe some of Chris' he held as a sacred trust. Buck--incorrigible flirt, prankster, class clown, loyal brother, devoted friend. That was Buck. Now lately it seemed Vin was finding out things that Buck hid from him, even from Chris, and now JD too. 'Buck when you can talk again you're goin to talk to me.' Vin made a mental note to track down this Cap'n Nate. And hell, why hadn't he thought to ask Ezra what was bothering Buck so much about Hoyt's niece or whatever she was? He'd do that as soon as they got back to the hospital. And then he'd go ten rounds with that stubborn SOB Larabee, until the team leader finally agreed to leave the watching of Buck to JD for awhile and get some sleep.

Baggage retrieval at Denver International Airport was never easy. Ezra had once irritably commented that as long as off-loading the luggage took it'd be faster to ship the bags to Salt Lake City and have them bused the rest of the way. (That particular occasion Ezra had been waiting on his mother's bags. Maude Standish Whatever Her Last Name Was This Month always traveled with at least a half dozen bags when she dropped in to visit her son--even though Vin had never known her to stay longer than two days.)

But finally JD's lone duffel appeared and they could get away from the terminal. JD still carried his backpack and Vin hefted the duffel, which was so light he suspected the younger man had left half his clothes in Florida. Probably wouldn't have checked a bag at all had there been any other way to get his weapon on the plane.

JD finally broke his silence when he realized Vin had brought the Jag to the airport. "Ezra let you drive his car?" he said in something like astonishment.

Vin pulled the keys out of his pocket. He thought about handing them to JD, but took a second look at the kid's pale face and exhausted, fearful eyes and thought better of it. Vin actually had slept pretty good on Ezra's couch. The way JD looked, Vin was sure he hadn't closed his eyes since Nathan had told him Buck was hurt.

"We got t' make a stop on the way back," he said as JD, without protest, plunked himself into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt.

"Will it take long?" JD wanted to get to the hospital.

"You eat recently?" 

JD just stared at him.

"Yeah, well, neither's Ez. And Chris took maybe two bites of a sandwich in the cafeteria. I was thinkin' we could go by that deli Ez likes and get some real food. Only, I'm not real sure where it is."

After a minute, JD nodded. "Meyers," he said softly. "It's in the Stone Gate."

 

University Medical Center  
Denver:

~~He woke with a sore head, throbbing jaw, and a bandage around skinned and bruised knuckles. He looked around, recognizing his own room. Sarah's room. He'd changed it around--put her wicker rocker on the sunporch, packed away the periwinkle blue and white afghan she'd crocheted when she was pregnant, given away her clothes and makeup and her antique silver perfume bottles; a plain brown spread now covered the bed instead of her prized antique double wedding ring quilt--but it was still Sarah's room. Even after all these months of missing her, he couldn't be in this room and not see her, not hear her laughing voice.

He staggered out of the room, unconscious of the reek of his unwashed body, the sour liquor on his breath. His head pounded. He needed whiskey. There was a half-full bottle on the coffee table in the living room. He grabbed it and put it to his lips, welcoming the burn of the harsh liquor.

Music.

The country/western music Sarah loved. Coming from her kitchen.

"Sarah?"

Unsteadily he walked toward the music. He heard other things now, the clink of silverware as a drawer was pulled out, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door. Eggs being cracked into a bowl. He could smell frying bacon.

Sarah was fixing him breakfast.

His step lighter even as the whiskey rose up and clouded his vision, Chris rushed forward and flung open the swinging door.

For just a moment he could see them. Sarah standing at the stove and Adam sitting at the table devouring a bowl of the high-sugar cereal Buck had introduced him to one weekend when Sarah and Chris were on a "romantic" getaway, and Buck was playing Uncle Buck.

He blinked.

And they were gone. Gone the way they were gone, forever.

Alcohol-fueled rage rose up as reality crashed in on Larabee and the ache of being alone, being without them, shredded the last bit of his heart. Unable to think, he grabbed something--one of Sarah's good knives from the wooden block--and rushed against the person who was left. He snatched Buck away from the stove, whirled him around and slammed him up against the wall, holding the sharp edge of the knife to his vulnerable throat. Buck dropped the phone he'd been holding between his shoulder and ear and grabbed Chris' hand, not trying to force the knife away but just keeping it in place. His face was swollen with ugly black bruises. "Chris--"

"Shut up!" Chris roared. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm fixin' breakfast," Buck said calmly. "You wanna put that knife down now before the bacon burns?"

'SOB thinks I won't do it...' suddenly Buck's face vanished, replaced by the dark faceless unknown evil that had taken away all that made Chris' life good. He tightened his grip, paying no attention to the warm sticky blood that oozed over his hands. "You bastard! You killed my wife and son..."~~

 

Chris woke suddenly and as cold as if doused with ice water. 'Oh, God--'

The hospital. ICU. Buck's room. Buck in the bed, monitors and wires and tubes. The hated horribly rhythmic pumping of the respirator--hated because it was needed, but valued for the same reason--it meant Buck was alive...

Buck...

The dream... Oh God, it was a dream, right? A nightmare. He couldn't...he wouldn't have done that to Buck. Couldn't have. 

He stared at the still figure in the bed. Stepped forward, not wanting to know, but having to know. Gentle fingers touched Buck's throat, pulling down the hospital gown to reveal that thin white scar. He’d asked Buck once, what the hell did you do? and Buck just laughed it off. Laughed but there was something in his eyes...

The thin white scar across one side of his neck. 

 

~~He tightened his grip. Warm sticky blood on his fingers~~

 

Buck's blood. Not some unknown mystery man, not a nightmare.

Buck.

His friend.

Chris Larabee had held a knife to the throat of his oldest and dearest friend.

More than that. Chris Larabee had used the knife on his oldest and dearest friend.

"Oh, God, Buck..."

Panic chewed Chris' guts. He had to get away. He had to think. This couldn't be true. It had to be a dream. Just a dream.

But the sick feeling in his gut knew it was more.

~+~+~+~

Ava Sanchez took another nervous glance at the big clock over the nurse's station. Less than an hour left of her shift and she hadn't yet been able to do her job. This was her only chance. She'd had to do quite a bit of finagling to get herself assigned to ICU today. The next two days were her regular days off and after that the nurse she was covering for would be back from vacation and Ava would be sent back to the outpatient clinic. She couldn't offer to work her days off; she never had before and it might cause too much suspicion to do so now. 

This was the third time in two years she'd received a middle-of-the-night phone call. Never any greeting, never a threat, just a name, a room number, and the crisp instruction, "Take care of it."

The first time she'd sat in bed, stunned, for hours until the sun came up. She couldn't believe it. It had to be a crank. No matter what he'd said, surely he couldn't think...

Her junior year in college, Ava needed money. Badly. She'd cut herself off from her family years before but that didn't mean they didn't come back to haunt her. Desperate, she fell back on a remembered way to make money.

And her first trick turned out to be an undercover vice cop. Once her fingerprints were taken she knew the charade was up. It wouldn't take too long to find out that Ava Sanchez was Yvette Morales. When the sweaty, middle-aged cop came into the interrogation room she braced herself for the worst.

Instead he let her go. Said, "You've got a friend, Ava. You'll be hearing from him," escorted her to the door and hailed her a cab. The next day she found her problems had literally disappeared. Her tuition was paid. Her rent was paid. Creditors no longer hounded her. Three weeks later she was notified she'd won a Hoyt Scholarship for her senior year.

Ava went on to finish nursing school with flying colors. Two weeks before graduation she went to the annual luncheon Marcus Hoyt hosted for his scholarship recipients. It was held in the private dining room on the top floor of the First National Bank of Denver. Three walls of floor to ceiling windows gave a stunning view over the city. The tables were covered with Irish linen, Waterford crystal, Lenox china and heavy, ornate silverware from Hoyt's own collection. Hoyt had been wonderful to talk to. But, as she was leaving, as he shook her hand, she thanked him fervently for what he had done for her. His eyes had a peculiar light in them as he bent over her hand, his lips barely touching the skin, then stood up and said quietly, "I am a big believer in helping people. I'm sure you will help me when you can." He paused, then smiled. "Miss Morales."

It wasn't a nice smile.

But still, she hadn't realized the truth until the first of the phone calls. Hoyt had done more than just get her out of a jam (for she was sure he was the "friend" the vice cop had referred to) or pay for her education.

He had bought and paid for her soul.

Ava looked up as the door to Mr. Wilmington's room banged open and the intense, dark-clad man who'd been there all day strode out. His eyes flicked over her without seeing, then he quickly raced down the hall to the double doors leading out of the unit.

His face looked as if all the demons in Hell were behind him. It was a feeling Ava knew well.

'He left him alone.' 

The other two men who had been in and out of the room had been absent for a couple of hours. Lucy, the nurse assigned to Wilmington, was on her break. It was the short quiet period that preceded the organized chaos of shift change.

The perfect time.

She stepped into the treatment room and took a large syringe from one of the drawers. She'd spent most of the morning trying to think of the best way to do it and finally decided an air embolism would be best. It was quick. Essentially indiscernible. No one would be surprised if a patient with such severe injuries suffered an embolism.

Slipping the syringe into her jacket pocket, she started toward the door.

"Nurse!"

Ava jumped. She whirled around to see a middle aged woman beckoning her from the door of cubicle. "Something's wrong with Mother," the woman said nervously.

Ava hesitated, but she had no choice. She moved down the hall toward the woman. 

~+~+~+~

Chris stormed down the hall, not even noticing the way people scrambled to get out of his way. He had to get out, he had to get some air...he had to think.

'I cut him. My best friend for years and I cut him. Slashed his throat.'

There was no doubt in his mind his dream had actually been a memory. From when? Right after Sarah and Adam died? Later? That nine days after the PD closed the investigation? 

When had he first noticed that scar on Buck's neck?

'Damnit Buck...why didn’t you...' What? Tell him? Kill him? Leave?

Leave...

Buck had transferred to the bomb squad. Away from Chris.

'Guess I know why...'

The elevator door opened and he let the crowd push him out. The open lobby and the doors outside beckoned like manna from heaven. Chris needed to get out. He needed to get away. He couldn't breathe--

Damn.

He stopped. He was on the second floor, not the ground floor. A skybridge led from the second floor to the enclosed parking garage. The crowd of people all moved in that direction. Chris turned around, to go back to the elevators. Where the Hell were stairs around here...an elevator door was closing as he came up. He caught the eyes of a woman just as the door slid closed.

Sarah!

Chris stood stock still, then turned and jumped into the next elevator. He was the first person out on the lobby floor, running a few steps and looking around. There! He could see the back of her head as she disappeared down a hall. Chris ran after her, then skidded to a stop. The corridor ended in a plate glass door. Fire exit? He pushed it open and found himself in a little garden. Three wings of the hospital touched, forming a small, enclosed area. There were flowering plants and a few benches and a tinkling fountain. Doors led into the other two wings of the hospital.

Sarah would have liked this garden. 

Chris shook his head. What the hell was he doing? Chasing a woman...it couldn't be Sarah. Couldn't be. 

Sarah was dead. Sarah was...

Dead.

Oh God. 

Buck!

He jerked the door open and barreled back inside.

~+~+~+~

JD stared out the windshield of the Jag as Vin cruised up and down the parking lot looking for a spot. JD knew Vin wouldn't drive into the enclosed garage unless he had to, no matter how much Ezra might have preferred his "baby" be under a roof. Apparently Ezra wasn't so picky about Buck's vehicle though; JD saw the familiar pickup through a sudden sparkle of tears as they drove past it and exited the parking lot. Vin made a left turn and pulled into the overflow lot across the street.

'Dear God, please let him be okay...'

Now that he was here, almost to his brother's side, JD was gripped with an irrational terror. What if Buck had died while Vin was picking him up from the airport? What if he never got off the respirator? How long would Chris let him stay on life support? JD knew how Buck felt about that. He had always been so grateful that he was not Buck's POA. He'd made that decision once, for his mother. He couldn't do it again.

Not for his brother.

Vin parked the Jag and killed the engine. He touched JD's arm. "You okay?"

JD knew he could see the tears. He wiped them away impatiently. "Yeah." He reached down to gather the fragrant deli bags. Knowing how finicky Ezra was when he didn't feel well, and with the memory of how little any of them had eaten lately, Vin had purchased several sandwiches, a couple of containers of Meyer's famous chicken soup, and a Caesar salad. 

JD thought of Buck calling Ezra's ever-present salads "rabbit food" and the tears stung his eyes again. 'Get it together!' he yelled at himself. "Buck needs you to be strong, not a sniveling kid."

"You are strong, JD," Vin said quietly.

Startled, JD looked up at his friend. He hadn't realized he'd said the words aloud. Vin's clear blue eyes met his evenly. "There's no shame in carin' enough to cry."

"You don't cry." It was the first thing JD could think to say and he winced as the words came from his lips.

Vin smiled sadly. "Just cause you don't see it, don't mean I don't do it." He ruffled JD's hair fondly, much as Buck would have done. "Come on. Let's go deal with some stubborn mules."

"Mules?" JD repeated as he scrambled out of the car. 

"Yeah." Vin shot him a grin. "Not-sleepin' mule Chris, not-eatin' mule Ezra, not-breathin' mule Buck. I got plenty to say to all of 'em!"

 

Ava slipped inside the door and closed it quietly behind her. It had taken precious minutes to calm down anxious relatives sure their mother was having another coronary. But the man in black hadn't returned. Wilmington still slept, alone, in his room.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped close to the bed. She didn't look at the man. She'd learned not to look the first time. She pulled the syringe from her pocket and pulled back the plunger. 

Her left hand reached for the IV line. A few seconds more....

 

Chris slammed through the double doors. His boots pounding on the tile floor, he raced down the hall and flung open the door.

A nurse whirled from the bedside. She had a syringe inserted into the IV line and her thumb was on the plunger, ready to depress the contents into the line.

One look at the terrified, guilty expression on her face and Chris' eyes raced to the syringe.

Empty.

"No!"

He made a flying leap and caught her hand, jerking the syringe free. He shoved her back with his elbow. "Did any air get in the line?" He roared at her.

Tears spilled down her face. She buried her head in her hands.

He couldn't take the risk. Grabbing Buck's wrist, Chris yanked the IV needle free from his flesh, closing his fingers over the puncture to stop the bleeding.

Buck's midnight blue eyes flickered and opened. He looked at Chris in puzzled recognition.

"What the hell?"

Chris looked up at the familiar voice. Vin was standing in the doorway, a brown paper bag in his hand. JD hovered at his elbow, his eyes glued on Buck.

The letdown of adrenaline hit then and Chris' knees trembled at how close it had been. He sank down in the chair, keeping his fingers tightly on Buck's wrist. "Get the doctor in here," he said tiredly. He jerked his head in the direction of the cowering nurse on the floor. "And arrest her."

Vin started forward. "Arrest her for what? What's goin' on?"

Chris looked into Buck's eyes. "Arrest her for attempted murder of a federal agent." He swung around to look at Vin. "And do it by the book." His gimlet gaze moved to the woman. "I just bet she has a story to tell us, and I want every word to be admissible as evidence."

"Attempted murder?" JD broke from his paralysis and stepped forward, taking the steps to Buck's side, his eyes glued on Buck's face. The older man looked at him and his eyes lit up. JD grabbed Buck's free hand. "Damn, Buck..." His voice failed.

"It's okay, JD," Chris said quietly, his fingers tightening around Buck's wrist. "He's okay." He closed his eyes in weariness and blessed relief.

'Thank you, Sarah. I was too late for you...but thanks to you I made it in time for Buck.'

 

Sarah Bryant sat behind the wheel of her car in the hospital parking garage for a long time before she could start it. Tears streamed down her face. 'Coward coward coward...' she jeered at her reflection in the mirror. 'Too cowardly to go in there and look at the man who betrayed you. Too cowardly to tell him what you think of him.'

What do I think of him?

Do I hate him?

Or do I love him?

 

Part 23

“That girl was confessin’ before we even got around to askin’ her any questions,” Vin said with a certain grim satisfaction. “She was still talkin’ when I left. And Marcus Hoyt’s in shit up to his eyebrows.”

“Hoyt ordered her to kill Buck?”

“Yeah. And Buck wasn’t the only one. Two other people she’s killed under orders from Hoyt, patients in this hospital.”

“But I don’t understand,” JD said. It was the first thing he’d said since Vin’s return. “She’s a nurse. Why would she kill people? What kind of hold did Hoyt have over her?”

“Long story. For one thing, though she went by ‘Ava Sanchez’, her real name is Yvette Morales. She’s one of Pedro Morales’ kids.”

Chris frowned deepened. “That doesn’t make sense. Morales isn’t into gunrunning. He doesn’t even like guns.”

“Too busy killin’ off people with his drugs and prostitution,” Vin agreed. “But apparently Yvette--or Ava--tried to break with the family. Changed her name, went to nursing school. Got into some kind of trouble--guess we’ll find out more about that later--and Hoyt helped her out. She said--an’ I believe her--that she didn’t realize he was ‘buyin’ her soul’ until he came around for repayment. And then he had a double hold over her--he knew who she really was. The right word to the wrong person and she’d have lost everything she’d worked so hard for. Least, that was the way she looked at it.” Any sympathy Vin might have felt for the young woman vanished as he looked at the peacefully sleeping Buck Wilmington and realized--had Chris been just a few seconds slower in reacting--Buck would be dead now.

The ICU was finally calming down from the horror of the afternoon. Still, no one had made any attempt to kick either JD or Chris--or now, Vin--out of Buck’s room. On the contrary, one of the nurses had even brought in more chairs. JD sat in one, as close to Buck as he could manage, holding his “big brother’s” hand clasped tightly in his. Buck had woken up briefly in all the commotion after Chris had stopped Ava Sanchez from killing him. He’d managed a wink at JD--greatly relieving that young man--before slipping back into sleep. A stunned Dr. Culver--apparently having a hard time believing a hospital staff member could be a killer--had taken the time to reassure them Buck’s condition continued to improve and his vital signs were stronger every hour. The surgeon had even mentioned possibly removing the respirator as early as tomorrow afternoon. 

Vin frowned as he looked at his best friend. Chris still sat in the same chair where he’d spent so many hours keeping vigil. He’d turned it a bit so he was facing Vin at the foot of the bed, but every few minutes he’d look over his shoulder at Buck’s face and the monitors mounted over the bed. And he still clasped Buck’s right hand as tightly as JD did the left.

‘Stubborn cuss is goin’ to collapse himself if he don’t get some sleep soon,’ Vin thought. He’d tried to get Chris to go out to the waiting room for some rest and had been firmly rebuffed. Chris wasn’t ready to leave Buck yet. Hell, Vin knew how he felt. Even with the doctor’s reassurances that Buck was improving, Death still hovered too closely. He was still on that respirator. Vin for one wasn’t going to rest easy until Buck was breathing on his own. Not to mention out of ICU. Couldn’t rest with those damn monitors beeping and chirping. It was impossible not to look at them. 

But there was something else, a look in Chris’ eyes Vin didn’t recognize and didn’t like. Something bleak and bitter and deep. Something that reminded Vin of the stories he’d heard about the “old” Chris Larabee--the man who had nothing left to live for, the man on whom everyone had given up.

Everyone except Buck Wilmington.

Vin’s eyes strayed back to the figure in the bed. ‘Do you have any idea how much he cares about you?’ he silently questioned the sleeping man. ‘How much he depends on you? You’re always tellin’ me I saved Chris. Or “the team” saved him. No way, Pard. We had the easy job. You did the hard part. You pulled him back from that cliff he was standin’ on. Hell, Buck, you’re still his anchor. And not just his. You’re JD’s anchor. Ezra’s, too. Maybe even mine. You’re the glue that holds us together, Pard. And don’t ever doubt that...’

“Hoyt’s SOB attorney’s going to have a hard time getting him released now.” Chris’ voice was cold.

Vin shivered at the look on his friend’s face--a look of hatred and vengeance that was unfortunately mirrored on JD’s. He knew how they felt; he felt the same. Hoyt’s attorney shouldn’t even try to get him out of jail. His client was safer where he was. 

“Anything new on the actual bomber?”

Vin shook his head. “If it was Bolo Orlowski, we can’t prove it. The Miami ATF did send a couple of agents to talk to him. Course he says he hasn’t left home in a week; his wife backs him up.” Vin shrugged. “They’re checking airline records and credit card charges, but if it was Bolo, he hasn’t stayed in business this long by leavin’ a trail.”

“Buck had to have seen something,” Chris insisted.

“And we’ll just have to wait until he can tell us what it was,” Vin pointed out.

“How much damage was there to the apartment?’ JD asked suddenly. He flushed uncomfortably as the other two turned to look at him. He looked even younger, suddenly, and miserable. “I mean, I know it’s not important, not with Buck...but...I’m sorry...”

The harsh lines the last few days had carved into Chris’ face softened slightly. “Hell, JD, it is important. It’s your place, too. No need to apologize for worrying about your home.”

JD stared down at his hand clasped with Buck’s. He wouldn’t look at either of them. 

“JD,” Vin said softly. “It’s your home. Nothin’ wrong or bad or selfish about carin’ about it. And the good news is, the damage can be fixed. They’ve already done some emergency repairs so that the rain can’t leak in. The worst of the damage was confined to Buck’s bedroom. Pretty much everything in there was destroyed. But I bet we can salvage most of the rest. One of the investigators told me the neighbors can probably go home next week. It’ll take a while longer to fix your place back up, but you will go home again, JD.” He smiled. “You and Bucklin both.”

“Vin’s right. And in the meantime, you’ll stay at the ranch,” Chris offered. He rummaged in the bag of food Vin had brought and snorted. “Ezra doesn’t get back here soon, his salad’ll wilt.”

Vin had worried about the undercover man’s absence as well. “I’ll go call him,” he said, standing up. Sitting had stiffened his muscles again and he winced. “He probably conked out for a nap at his place. Don’t think he was feelin’ at all well when we left.”

“Wait.” JD looked startled, and alarmed. “Didn’t you say Ezra was driving Buck’s pickup?”

“Yeah. So I could have the Jag. Why?” Vin was starting to get an uneasy feeling.

JD’s eyes widened. “The pickup’s here. In the parking lot. I saw it when we came in from the airport.”

Chris shot to his feet. “Shit!”

“JD, where?” Vin snapped.

“The parking lot to the east of the main entrance. Almost at the end, the last row. About halfway down, I think.”

“Stay here. Don’t you leave Buck!” Chris slammed out the door. Before Vin followed him he took one last look at JD. The younger man was standing, holding Buck’s hand but facing the door.

Vin nodded at him grimly. He didn’t need to say anything. JD would protect Buck with his life if need be. 

Vin followed Chris out the door.

 

Nathan Jackson turned from the reception desk in the ICU waiting room as Chris Larabee shot past him. “Chris?” he started.

Vin grabbed him. “Nathan! When did you get--never mind. Come on!”

Not having the slightest idea what was going on, Nathan shrugged and followed his two teammates to the elevators.

 

The sun was setting behind the hospital and the parking lot was already filled with the lengthening shadows of dusk. “I don’t see it,” Chris snapped.

“See what?” Nathan was giving up hope that anyone was ever going to answer his questions.

“Damn!” Vin turned and started running in the opposite direction. “We came in the other way,” he yelled over his shoulder. “JD would have been looking on the other side of the lot.”

Chris spotted Buck’s pickup first. “There!” But Vin was closer, so he got there first. Running up to the driver’s side door, he looked in the window. “Shit! He’s in here!” He pounded on the window. “Ezra!”

Ezra was slumped across the seat, his head on the passenger seat. One arm was pulled over his head in such a way they couldn’t see his face. Vin stared at the still figure intently, but he couldn’t tell if Ezra was breathing or not. “Ezra!” He tried the door again. “It’s locked.”

“Stand clear,” Chris ordered. Before Vin could stop him, or even realize what he was about to do, Chris drew back his fist and slammed into the window with all the force given him by the last stressful days. The window shattered into tiny fragments. Ignoring the blood streaming down his hand, Chris reached in and released the lock on the door. “Ezra!” he snapped, yanking the door open. 

Nathan pushed past the other two men. One foot on the running board, he leaned in over the unmoving figure. “Ezra?” he said, shaking the still form, “Can you hear me?” He looked up. His two friends could see the fear in his eyes. “Vin! Go get some help from the hospital. We need a stretcher now!”

Vin took off without a backward glance.

“Nathan?” Chris’ voice demanded answers.

“His heartbeat’s too fast, Chris. Feels like it’s skipping. And he’s barely breathing!”

~+~+~+~

‘This is a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare.’

Chris stood just inside the treatment bay and for the second time that day watched as hospital personnel fought desperately to save one of his men.

Nathan stood next to him. The paramedic kept his eyes glued to the cardiac monitor. Ventricular tachycardia. Chris had heard a doctor say it, Nathan had repeated it.

The doctors had quizzed them about Ezra’s health. Any history of heart trouble? Any recent illness? Chris had told them about the food poisoning, the fact that Dr. Baker had commented about Ezra’s irregular heartbeat. “This isn’t food poisoning,” one of the doctors had muttered.

Vin had gone upstairs to check on Buck and let JD know what was going on. The lanky sharpshooter hadn’t said a word since they’d found Ezra in the parking lot.

Chris rubbed a hand across his stinging eyes. He was so exhausted he couldn’t think past Ezra lying in front of him and Buck on a respirator upstairs. 

Chris’ carefully constructed world was falling to pieces around him. 

And this time, he wasn’t sure he could survive it.

A high-pitched buzzing pulled his eyes to the monitors. “Oh, shit, no, Ezra, don’t do this,” he heard Nathan mutter.

“What?” Chris demanded.

An alarm blared loudly.

“V-fib!” yelled a doctor.

Chris stared at the monitor. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

Ezra was dying.

~+~+~+~

Lakewood-Saint David’s Hospital:

Dr. Craig Baker parked his car in the physician's parking lot at five-thirty. He wasn't due on duty until six, but after spending most of the afternoon trying to tell himself he had to be mistaken about Ezra Standish, he'd finally accepted the fact he wasn't going to be able to let go of his curiosity until he knew for sure. 

He didn't think he'd get anywhere if he called Standish and asked him to drop by for a checkup and some blood tests, but if he asked Chris Larabee to get his agent to come in, that might work. He'd understood from both Lauren Murray and the ATF agent Montgomery that Larabee was the one person Standish might listen to. And even if he didn’t agree, he might at least obey.

Maybe.

He decided to call University Medical Center and check on Buck Wilmington's condition. If Larabee was there--and he had the strong feeling he was--he'd ask to speak to him.

 

University Medical Center  
Intensive Care Unit:

JD looked up as the door opened. His eyes widened as he took in the look on Vin's face. "Vin?" he asked, rising to his feet.

Vin's eyes flickered to Buck's sleeping face. "Come on out here, JD."

Scared, JD followed Vin out into the corridor to see his friend lean against the wall, then slide down to the floor. Vin buried his face in his hands. 

"Vin?" JD knelt at his side, desperately needing to know--and at the same time fearing to hear--what was going on. "Did you find Ezra?"

Vin nodded.

"What!" JD reached out and shook his shoulder. "Is he okay?" 'Stupid question,' he told himself. 'If he was okay, he'd be here. And Vin wouldn't be acting like this.' "Vin," he whispered, aware that one of the nurses was watching him from her desk, "just tell me what's wrong."

Vin rubbed his hands over his face and then dropped them. He stared straight ahead at nothing, avoiding JD's worried gaze. "We found him in Buck's truck. He's unconscious, they've got him downstairs now. Hell, JD, he musta been there for hours! Why the Hell didn't I go looking for him earlier?"

"Unconscious?" JD slid down next to Vin with a thump. "But...what's wrong with him?"

"I don't know." Vin shook his head. He took a deep breath. "It don't look good, JD. That's why I had you come out here. Don't think we need to risk Bucklin hearin' somethin's wrong right now."

"Agent Tanner?"

Both men looked up. The nurse behind the desk was holding the phone out. "It's a Dr. Baker over at Lakewood St. David Hospital. He asked for Agent Larabee, but--"

Vin nodded. "He's the doc that took care of Buck and Ez after that food poisoning." He made to stand up. JD was quicker and got to his feet, then helped his friend to stand. Moving slowly, Vin took the phone from the nurse.

 

"Charging!"

"Three hundred!"

"Clear!"

Ezra's body arched as the electrical current flowed through his body.

"No conversion."

"Push one amp sodium bicarb. Raise to three fifty."

"Charging--three-fifty!"

"Clear!"

Ezra's body jerked again.

"Come on, you SOB!" Chris Larabee yelled at his friend.

 

"Agent Larabee, this is Craig Baker, I'm the physician that treated--"

"I know who you are, Doc," Vin said tiredly. Lord his head hurt and suddenly all he wanted to do was sit down somewhere and quietly pass out, then wake up to find he was still at the cabin in Wyoming and all this had been a dream. "But I'm not Larabee. This is Tanner. Chris can't come to the phone right now."

"Oh. Well, maybe you can help. I think I might have figured out what was wrong with Agent Standish--although it doesn't really make any sense--and I was wondering if you could--"

"Wait," Vin interrupted him, his heart starting to pound. "Did you say you know what’s wrong with him?”

His change in tense hadn't gone unnoticed. The doctor's voice sharpened. "Agent Tanner, has something happened to Agent Standish?"

"He's down in the ER here right now, we found him passed out--he was probably out for a couple of hours, at least. They're calling it--" Vin had to stop to think of the words. "Ventricular...something...tachy--"

"Ventricular tachycardia?"

"Yeah. That's it." Vin drew in a shaky breath. "Does that--"

"Agent Tanner, I need to speak to the doctor in charge, now!"

Vin stared at the phone. "But--"

"If it's what I think it is, normal treatment could kill him. I don't care if you have to pull your gun on the doctor, I need to talk to him!"

 

“Pulse eighty-eight and steady, Doctor.”

The ER physician stepped back from the examining table and turned to face Chris and Nathan. “Interesting bedside manner you have, Agent Larabee,” he said with raised eyebrows and a small grin.

“Whatever works,” Chris said, his eyes on his agent. “How is he?”

“He’s stable for now. Pulse is steady, breathing fine. We’ll be moving him up to ICU soon. I want a close eye kept on him until--“

“Doctor! Pulse is dropping!”

The man whirled back around to the table. “What the--“

The door slammed open and Vin Tanner barreled in. “Stop!”

“Stop what? Who the hell are you?”

“Vin--“ Nathan started.

“He’s one of my men,” Chris snapped. He stepped forward and grabbed Vin by the arm. “What’s wrong?” He took in a deep breath. “Is it Buck?”

Vin shook his head. “No, he’s the same. Chris, Dr. Baker called. He needs to talk to whoever’s treating Ez, right now!”

“Pulse down to fifty, Doctor.”

The doctor stared from Vin to Chris back to Ezra. “Who is Dr. Baker?”

“He’s the one that treated Ez at Lakewood-St. David. He knows what’s wrong with him! He says if you treat this like--whatever it looks like--you could kill him!”

“Vin!” Nathan croaked, scandalized. Bad enough his teammates were known throughout Denver for being the world’s worst patients, now they were critiquing treatment protocols?

Another alarm sounded. The doctor looked up at the monitor, then grabbed his stethoscope. “Get me ten CCs--“

“No!” Vin yanked his gun from the holster. “Don’t do anything until you talk to Baker!”

Everyone froze.

Chris looked at Vin, then at the doctor. “Do as he says.” His voice was chipped ice.

The doctor hesitated, eyed Vin cautiously, then yanked the stethoscope from around his neck and stepped back from the table. Without a word he stalked to the door.

Minutes--probably no more than two but it seemed like a lifetime as Ezra’s pulse gradually slowed and no one in the room seemed able to move--went by.

“You want to put the gun away, Cowboy?” Chris asked calmly.

Vin flushed and holstered the weapon quickly. “Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly to the medical personnel who were all staring at him as if he were some sort of wild animal. “Had to make sure he’d listen to me.”

“What did Baker think--“ Chris started.

He was interrupted when the door swung open again and the doctor rushed back in. “Stop the IV. NOW!”

 

Part 24

JD had given up sitting and now he paced restlessly back and forth. Not that there was that much room, but he had to move around. The normal restless energy of a young man in his early twenties was compounded by stress and anxiety.

It had been almost three hours since Vin had literally flung the telephone down on the desk and gone racing out of ICU. JD had started to follow, then pulled himself up short as he thought about Buck. JD still hadn't figured out everything that had happened while he was in Florida, but he knew enough. He knew his best friend needed him.

That didn't ease his anxiety. Buck slept, the respirator still doing the job of breathing for him, the monitors carefully tracking his vital functions. JD had heard nothing from his teammates. He didn't even know if Ezra was alive or dead. 'He has to be alive...they'd have come and told me if he...'

He stopped to straighten the blanket around Buck's shoulders. It didn't need straightening but JD had to do something. He stared at the familiar features, so unfamiliarly quiet and still, praying for a flicker of response, another wink, anything, so that JD would know the man he had come to care for as best friend and big brother was still there.

He forced himself to sit down again. The whooshing of the respirator was so loud in the quiet room. He couldn't hear anything else. Trying to block it out, he said, "Y'know, Buck...you should have come to Miami." His voice sounded strange, flat and almost tinny. He coughed self-consciously. "The room next to ours, there were five girls there from some school in Texas. You'd have loved 'em, they were wild. There was this party one night..." JD launched into an account of his vacation. He spoke automatically, not really remembering the events as much as reciting them. He talked about the parties around the pool at the hotel; the dances on the beach with the only light that of big bonfires; the long warm afternoons spent playing volleyball and splashing in the silken waves. He told Buck about Casey's two classmates and the other person they'd shared the two-room suite with--someone who was the cousin of a friend's sorority sister. Jamie was younger than the rest of them, not quite eighteen--and sheltered. She'd had way too much to drink one night and a couple of guys had been intent on taking her for a walk on the beach. Knowing full well what they had planned, JD had played big brother for the girl, taken her back to the room and spent the night holding her head as she prayed to the porcelain god. Casey'd been kind of annoyed with him, but JD had known it was the right thing to do. "She talked a lot, you know? I mean, she didn't know who I was half the time. Her mom died a couple of months back and she didn't want to go home and see the house without her mom there..." JD stopped.

He knew the feeling. After his mother had died, their small apartment was no longer a haven from the world, but a cold, lonely place that mocked him for what he no longer had and hadn't valued enough when he did have it. JD had learned that "home" wasn't a place, it was a feeling. A feeling he lost with his mother's death but found again in a city two thousand miles from where he'd grown up, with six of the most annoying, irritating, crazy, wonderful friends anyone could ever ask for. 

More than friends. Family.

And one special big brother. 

"What the hell were you even doing there, Buck?" he asked, feeling tears tickling his eyes. He wiped them away impatiently. "You were supposed to be in Wyoming with Chris and Vin." The guilt he'd been feeling came to the fore. "I didn't even call you," he half-whispered. "I wanted to--" so many times, when he'd felt lost in the crowd of people so busy working at having a good time. "I can't turn my back on you for a minute, can I?" he tried to joke. "Chris should have known better than to leave you and Ezra alone in Denver. The miracle is that only our place blew up--" his throat closed up. He tightened his fingers around Buck's hand.

He felt a faint pressure on his hand and looked up quickly to see Buck's dark blue eyes watching him. "Hey, you're awake!" JD jumped up. "How do you feel? Do you need anything?"

Buck shook his head slightly. His eyes asked a question. He raised a finger and pointed at his roommate.

"Me? I'm fine. You're the one in the hospital," JD tried to laugh it off.

Buck was having none of it. His hand tightened on JD's. Those eyes that were all-seeing where his friend was concerned didn't waver from JD's face.

JD looked down. "I was scared, Buck. Heck, I'm still scared. But all that time trying to get here, and I didn't even know if you were going to still be...and now, with Ezra--" Too late, JD tried to stop the flow of words. He threw a frightened glance at Buck's face, almost groaning as he saw the determined look in his eyes.

~+~+~+~

"What the hell is taking so long in there?" Vin demanded.

"They'll let us know something as soon as they can." Nathan tried to sound positive and soothing. It didn't have much of an effect on the other two, both of whom were worn thin from the last few days.

Chris didn't say anything. He just stared straight ahead, his bandaged hand resting in his lap. They'd been forcibly ejected from Ezra's side when a nurse had noticed Chris dripping blood all over the floor. Another nurse had cleaned and bandaged the cuts--none were serious--and directed them to wait in an alcove where there were a few chairs and the coffee machine. 

Vin poured another cup of the strong dark brew, not so much because he wanted it as because from there he had a clear view of the treatment cubicle where Ezra was. He stiffened. "Here comes the doc," he said, gulping a large mouthful. It was too hot and he winced.

The doctor--he was about Chris' height, with bright carrot red hair and freckles--came in. He made eye contact with all three of them individually before saying, "He's stable."

"I hate that word," Chris said in that eerily calm voice that meant he wasn't calm at all. "What the hell does that mean? Is he going to be all right?"

"What's wrong with him?" Nathan questioned. "Ezra's never had a heart problem."

The doctor sighed. Vin noted his nametag read, "Dr. Howard" and wondered how many times the man got called "Howdy Doody" in the course of an average week. Then he forgot everything else as he heard the doctor's words.

"Mr. Standish was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Nathan repeated in shock.

"Poisoned?" Vin was totally confused--how could Ezra have been poisoned? Where? When? 

"Poisoned?" Chris hissed in fury.

"Essentially, yes." The doctor poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and gulped half of it in the first mouthful. "Mr. Standish can thank Dr. Baker for the fact he's still alive." The doctor shot a smile at Vin, apparently not holding any grudge for Vin pulling a gun on him. "And you too, of course." The smile vanished. "If we'd kept on treating him as his symptoms dictated, we probably would have killed him."

He looked at the three ATF agents. The fury was rolling off Chris in waves. Nathan just looked puzzled and concerned and Vin was busy going over the last eighteen hours in his head and feeling awful that he hadn't realized something was wrong with Ezra earlier.

"T-27 is a drug in development here in Denver at Riverside Pharmaceuticals," the doctor finally said when none of the other men seemed inclined to speak. "It's still in the experimental stages--actually I think they just got the FDA approval to go ahead with field trials. It's intended to treat certain kinds of cardiac arrhythmia in patients who have shown abnormal sensitivity to--" he seemed to realize two-thirds of his audience didn't understand a word he was saying. "Well, it's a completely different chemical base than the drugs most prescribed."

"It's supposed to treat cardiac arrhythmia?" Nathan asked, puzzled. "But Ezra--"

"Well, yeah. If administered to a person having arrhythmia. But if you administer it to someone with a perfectly healthy heart--normal heartbeat--the drug actually causes cardiac instability. Initially, a rapid heartbeat--ventricular tachycardia--leading to ventricular fibrillation." He paused to explain, "The heart is beating so fast it's just twitching, not contracting. Not doing the job."

"That's when you had to shock him," Nathan said.

The doctor nodded. "But, the drugs we used to try to stabilize his heart don't interact well with T-27. They slow the heart down--too well. Bradycardia. Had we kept on with the drugs we were using, we would literally have paralyzed his heart."

"But how did Baker know that was what was wrong?" Vin asked.

"Well, that's where Agent Standish's guardian angel comes in to play," Howard said, perfectly serious. "Baker worked for awhile at Riverside Pharmaceuticals. T-27 manifests as a very distinctive pattern in blood chemistry. Agent Standish was showing some of that pattern when he was in the hospital before. Baker realized the pattern was off, and it was earlier today that he remembered where he'd seen a similar pattern before. Of course, he couldn't see any way Agent Standish would have come in contact with the drug, but--"

"You mean...when Ezra was in the hospital before--he didn't have food poisoning? He'd been poisoned with this T-27 or whatever?" Chris lurched to his feet. "What about Buck?"

Howard held up a hand. "No, he did have food poisoning. But he'd also been exposed to T-27. The food poisoning probably saved his life. He couldn't keep anything in his system long enough to do serious damage." He sighed. "This time it would have been different. He has to have taken in a pretty substantial dose...probably at least ten times the therapeutic level...within the last eight to twelve hours. And it had to have been consumed orally."

"You mean, somethin' he ate?" Vin shook his head. "Can't be. He hasn't ate anything."

"Eaten or drank. T-27 is an odorless, tasteless powder. But there's no doubt that he ingested it. I just got off the phone with Dr. Hastings at Riverside. She's the head of the labs and the one that originally developed T-27. She didn't believe me at first, but then Baker called her too. Anyway she faxed us the chemical breakdown and our lab here isolated it in Mr. Standish's blood."

"Is he going to be all right?" Chris demanded. "How do you treat it?"

"I believe he will be. We're going to have to watch him closely--the next twenty-four hours are critical until the drug works itself out of his bloodstream. We'll move him up to ICU shortly."

Someone called his name then and he gulped down the rest of the coffee. "You gentlemen might as well go on upstairs and make yourselves comfortable. Mr. Standish will be up soon." He headed back to the treatment room.

Nathan looked from Chris to Vin. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "How could Ezra have been poisoned by some experimental drug. Those things are supposed to be kept under lock and key, for God's sake! And he's exposed not once but twice?"

"We're going to find out," Chris growled. "You two get over to his place. Tear it apart if you have to. I'll call in and have a tech crew meet you there. We'll get the hospital--or this Riverside Pharmaceuticals--to give our lab guys the breakdown--Vin? What?"

Vin looked up at him, his blue eyes glittering coldly. "That damn tea!" he swore. "That's the only thing he drank this morning. It has to be in the tea!"

~+~+~+~

Chris knew something was wrong the second he stepped through the double doors leading to ICU. The door to Buck's room was open and he could hear raised voices within. Chris' exhausted body responded sluggishly to the surge of adrenaline. Before he could get down the hall, JD stuck his head out of the room. The young man's panicked expression lightened somewhat when he spotted Larabee. "Chris!"

Chris reached the young man's side in a few long strides. "What's wrong?" He started into the room. 

"It's my fault," JD said miserably. "I slipped and told him about Ezra. Now he's upset. Chris, I think he's really hurting but he won't let the nurse give him anything--"

Chris took in the scene quickly. The nurse--she was a young one he'd seen before--had a syringe in her hand but every time she made a move toward the IV Buck would shake his head wildly. The movement had to be agony with the tube in his throat; Buck's face and neck were beaded with sweat and harsh lines of pain furrowed his forehead. His eyes--as expressive as ever--fell upon Chris and he seemed to immediately relax slightly. Shaking his head, Chris rounded the bed to grasp Buck's outstretched hand. "You are one stubborn cuss," he lectured gently. "Buck, you've got to stop fightin' them all the time. And you've got to stop fighting that tube."

Buck locked eyes with Chris. His widened, as he tried to communicate something. He glanced at JD, then back at Chris.

Chris sighed. "Ezra is going to be all right." He forced a grin. "Looks like you'll have him as a roommate for awhile."

Buck's eyes flicked over to the empty bed on the other side of the room, then he looked back at Chris. His gaze was demanding. Sighing, Chris settled into the chair, grasping his friend's hand tightly, and told him as much as he knew.

~+~+~+~

"I'm sorry, Chris," JD repeated.

They were out in the hallway. Buck had finally surrendered to the painkillers being pumped into his system, and the nurses had asked the two ATF agents to step out while they prepared the other bed in the room for Ezra. Chris refused to let Buck out of his sight, so he leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes wearily. JD's voice seemed to come from so far away. It took him several minutes before he could respond. "Sorry for what?" He could hear the exhaustion dragging his own voice.

"For telling him about Ez. I didn't mean to, I was just so worried when you guys went racin' out of here..."

"It's okay. I would have told Buck myself. Nothin' good ever came from hidin' things from him." Chris frowned as he thought about that statement and then wondered how much Buck was hiding from him.

"Where's Vin? Still down with Ezra?"

Chris shook his head. "He and Nathan are on the way to Ezra's condo...see if they can figure out how he got poisoned."

"Nathan?" JD questioned. "How did Nathan get here?"

Chris opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. After several seconds, he laughed. "Actually, JD...I don't have a clue!"

~+~+~+~

“Vin...I don’t see anything in here but tea,” Nathan said in frustration, gesturing at the teabag he’d just dissected on Ezra’s kitchen table.

The two of them had beaten the Forensics team to the condominium. Vin used his key to let them in and led Nathan straight to the kitchen, pulling out the canister where Ezra stored his special tea. Nathan had wanted to wait for the investigators but Vin had to know if the drug was indeed in the tea. Finally acquiescing, Nathan pulled a bag at random from the few remaining in the canister, donned gloves and a surgical mask from his ever-present med kit, and tore the bag apart. “They’ll do a chemical analysis but I sure don’t see any signs of anything in here.”

“Damnit, there has to be!” Vin ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Nathan, I was with him all morning, most of the afternoon. All he had was some tea. Oh, and water at the hospital, but he got that from...”

“Vin?” Nathan asked when Vin stopped talking.

Silence.

“Vin!”

Vin blinked and shook his head, like someone awaking from a dream. “Damn,” he breathed. “It was in the water.”

“What? That’s impossible--“ Nathan followed Vin’s gaze to the kitchen sink.

It took almost a full minute for him to realize what Vin meant.

“The water filter!”


	5. Parts 25-End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If possible, things get even worse for Buck and Ezra. Vin meets an interesting woman. Buck realizes things happening now are irrevocably tied to the deaths of Sarah and Adam Larabee.

Part 25

Tired.

He was so tired. 

Sleep beckoned seductively, luring him to return to the warm embrace. But something held him back. Something was wrong. There was something he needed to know...before he could slip back into the dark mists surrounding him.

Ezra struggled to open his eyes.

 

Chris woke suddenly, his heart pounding until a quick glance around the room revealed nothing changed. A look at his watch told him he’d been asleep almost two hours. A measure of just how exhausted he was, that he could sleep through the nurses coming in every fifteen minutes. He hadn’t had any nightmares either. The sleep had cleared his head a little bit but only reminded his body how desperately it needed more rest.

JD still slept, one leg curled underneath his body in the chair, head on the bed next to Buck’s hand, which he clasped tightly in his own even in sleep. Buck slept as well, peacefully for a change. He’d been terribly restless earlier.

Chris stood up and stretched, hearing and feeling the vertebrae pop up and down his spine. A soft noise reached his ears and he turned quickly to look at Ezra. The undercover agent moved again in his sleep, moaning a little. His eyelashes fluttered against pale cheeks.

Chris glanced up above the bed. The hospital staff was so concerned about a relapse that Ezra's cardiac monitor was set to alarm at the slightest change in rhythm. It had gone off twice since he'd been moved into the ICU.

But the heartbeat stayed steady. "Ezra?" Chris said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Heavy-lidded eyes opened slowly, revealing glassy green orbs. Ezra blinked once or twice, then focused on Chris. Recognition sparked. "Chris?" Ezra's voice was faint--barely more than a whisper--and raspy. He frowned and swallowed painfully.

"Need some water?"

Ezra nodded. He tried to sit up a little but Chris gently stopped him. "Don't move around. You need to stay still." The nurses had impressed that upon both Chris and JD throughout the night.

Ezra frowned, but stopped struggling. He sipped some water through the straw, then shifted his head on the pillow. His eyes flickered around the room. Chris saw the exact moment he recognized he was in a hospital. "What happened?" The voice was still faint but not as raspy. Then Ezra's eyes widened in alarm. "Buck!" he hissed, trying to sit up again.

"Don't move!" Chris snapped. Ezra froze. Chris regretted his tone as soon as the words left his mouth, but at least Ezra stopped trying to sit up. "Buck's doin' okay," he said, more gently. "He's right over there." He moved so Ezra could see across the room. 

Ezra looked and seemed to relax. Then he frowned. "JD?" His eyes returned to Chris. "What time is it? How long..."

Chris glanced at his watch. "It's six-fifteen. Friday morning," he added. "You've been in the hospital about twelve hours. You remember anything?"

Ezra's forehead creased in a frown. "I...Vin was going to the airport. To get JD," he added, looking back over at his young friend. He frowned again. "I was...feeling somewhat unwell," he admitted sheepishly.

"Yeah, I bet you were." Chris shook his head. "You passed out in Buck's pickup. Down in the parking lot."

Ezra closed his eyes. "How embarrassing," he muttered.

Of all the words Chris could think of to describe the last few days, "embarrassing" wasn't one of them. "You're damn lucky you aren't dead," he said harshly. "You were poisoned, Ezra...someone loaded your water filter with enough of an experimental heart drug to have killed off your whole neighborhood." Nathan had told him the preliminary lab results just before he and Vin had left.

"The water filter?" Ezra murmured. His eyes were blinking sleepily.

"Go back to sleep, Ez," Chris said with a sigh. He patted his agent's shoulder again, reassuringly. "We'll tell you all about it later...when you can stay awake. Everything's okay right now. Just go back to sleep."

~+~+~+~

Agents from three federal agencies, and two Denver PD cars converged upon the dark-brick and smoked-glass complex that housed Riverside Pharmaceuticals. "Nice place," Nathan said dryly as the security guard raised the gate so they could drive into the parking lot. The complex nestled up to a wooded park alongside the river. 

In spite of the early hour about a dozen vehicles were scattered throughout the lot. Nathan let out a soundless whistle as he saw the two cars closest to the entrance: a brand new, bright red Mercedes convertible and a powder-blue, custom-designed Stealth. "Didn't know medical research paid so good," Vin said as Nathan parked his Blazer next to the Stealth. 

"Me either."

They were obviously expected. As the two ATF agents--flanked by a trio of worried officials from the FDA and two wooden-faced FBI men--came through the heavy glass double doors, a young woman stood up from behind the marble reception desk. "If you gentlemen would follow me?" she said as if it weren't the crack of dawn and they weren't there to discuss the attempted murder of a Federal agent. "Dr. Hastings is waiting in the conference room."

She led them down a hall carpeted in silver gray. Soft white walls provided a backdrop for a collection of abstract prints interspersed with framed newspaper articles about Riverside Pharmaceuticals. She knocked and then opened double doors, saying, "The gentlemen from the government, Dr. Hastings."

Vin and Nathan stepped into the room, dazzled briefly by early-morning sunshine glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows. The long mahogany conference table was spread with pots of coffee, crystal pitchers of juice and silver trays of rolls, pastries and fruit. In spite of everything, Vin's stomach reminded him just how long it had been since it had received anything more substantial than coffee.

Two women stood up at their entrance. One looked to be in her early thirties, with shoulder- length dark hair. She wore a white lab coat over a soft woolen dress that was the exact color of the Stealth outside. She came forward with her hand outstretched. "I'm Monica Hastings. Director of this facility." She took in a quick breath. Vin noted the pallor of her face and the dark circles under her eyes. "I can't tell you how shocked and appalled I am at what has happened. Thank God for Craig Baker. The thought that one of my employees could have--" her voice choked off and she sat down suddenly in a cushioned rolling chair.

The other woman touched her arm briefly and stepped forward in turn. She looked to be a few years younger, and stunning, with short blond hair and vivid green eyes in a flawlessly made-up face. Her black suit with an emerald silk blouse showed off a perfect figure and when she extended her hand, Vin saw a gold and diamond Rolex wristwatch and a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. A huge emerald ring in an antique gold setting glittered on her ring finger. "I'm Nina Wyerly. Attorney for Riverside Pharmaceuticals, as well as Dr. Hastings' cousin. We believe we have found our thief...and your assassin."

~+~+~+~

Sirens screamed and red and blue lights flashed demandingly as nearly a dozen law-enforcement vehicles screeched to a halt in front of a run-down olive stucco house only two blocks from Vin's apartment in the Purgatorio. Doors slammed as men poured out of the cars, weapons drawn and ready. Neighbors stared as the house was surrounded.

Nathan and Vin got there just as the first officers were giving the "all clear". "No sign of him," a uniformed Denver cop informed them, holstering his weapon and walking toward his car. 

"Looks like he left in a hurry," Bobby Fewell from ATF Team Three confirmed, standing aside so Vin and Nathan could enter, and grinning at the looks on their faces.

"Cleanin' house ain't his strong suit, I guess," Vin said, taking in the squalor in the living room. He turned toward the kitchen and shook his head at the roaches crawling over the repellent collection of dirty plates in the sink. His building had roaches too, but at least the occasional one that escaped the bug bombs and roach hotels in his kitchen ran for cover when someone entered. These acted like they owned the place.

"Vin. Look at this."

Vin followed Nathan's voice into the bedroom. Clothes were piled on the unmade bed and a half-filled suitcase sat on the floor. "Interrupted while he was packin'?" Vin wondered.

"Look at this," Nathan insisted again.

"This" was a plaque hanging on the wall. Unlike the decrepit state of the rest of the house, this was carefully mounted and showed signs of being dusted regularly. 

"That son of a bitch!" Vin swore as he read the engraving.

_"All Saints College of Denver awards to: Kevin Michael Murine, the Marcus Hoyt Scholarship in the Field of Microbiology."_

~+~+~+~

"Kevin Murine has a record. Petty stuff, mostly as a juvenile. But right after his eighteenth birthday he got picked up for B&E and did a year in prison. He seemed to pull his act together after that. Got a job when he was released, started going to City College. Transferred to All Saints when Hoyt gave him a scholarship. Graduated with honors, then went right to work for Riverside."

"Doesn't that damn place have any security?" Chris demanded. "How could someone just waltz out of there with a deadly experimental drug and no one notice?"

Nathan shrugged. "They have security, but it's more for protection from people breaking in, or industrial spies. It's a small company and the director, Dr. Hastings, seems to think they're a family. Doesn't seem to have occurred to her one of her own people might have another agenda. They do have a check in and out system, but Kevin Murine was the 'checker'. There was nobody to check _him."_

"Kinda felt bad for her," Vin chimed in. "The FDA was rippin' her a new one when we left. And the FBI guys were circling like sharks in the water."

"I don't," JD snapped. "Her crappy security could have got Ez killed."

"Well, you didn't see her, JD," Nathan smiled knowingly at Vin. "Neither of the ladies was exactly a strain on the eyes."

JD rolled his own eyes. "Jeez. Now you sound like Buck." Then the grin vanished from his face and he shot a worried glance toward the double doors leading back into ICU.

"He'll be fine, JD," Nathan said soothingly.

"But what if he's not?" JD demanded, concern clouding his expression. "What if they take out the tube and he can't breathe on his own?"

"Then they'll wean him off gradually," Nathan said patiently. "This hospital has the best trauma team in the state, JD. And Culver's a genius. They know what they're doing."

"But--"

"Shut UP, JD!" Chris exploded, flinging himself to his feet and striding across the room to stare out the windows.

Vin shook his head at the stunned and shaken JD. "He don't mean nothin' by it, JD. Chris is just way too tired right now and stressed out about Buck and Ez." Vin followed Chris across the room.

 

Chris knew when Vin stepped up behind him but didn't turn away from the windows. After a long moment, Vin put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You can't keep goin' without any sleep, Cowboy."

"I slept some."

Vin rolled his eyes. "Yep. Bet ya did. With one eye on Buck and one eye on Ez."

"Damn Hoyt," Chris muttered.

"Hoyt's goin' down, Chris. That nurse is goin' ta turn states evidence, and even his own lawyer's rattin' him out. He's confessed to findin' out who Buck and Ez actually were and telling Hoyt about it. We'll find this Murine guy too. And even if we don't, we got enough that Hoyt'll probably never get out of prison."

"He'd better pray he doesn't." The feral tone of voice promised Marcus Hoyt wouldn't live too long if he did. Chris turned abruptly. "What about Bolo Orlowski?"

Vin shook his head. "Nothing there. Can't link him to Hoyt, can't even prove he was in Denver. Unless Buck knows somethin--“

“Chris!” 

Both men turned at Nathan’s voice. Dr. Culver was coming through the double doors. Chris abandoned the windows and headed toward the man. Still, JD got there a half-step ahead of him.

“How is he?” the younger man asked worriedly.

Culver grinned. “Anxious to talk to you.”

JD’s face lit up and he bounced through the double doors. Chris took the time to stop and shake Culver’s hand. “Thanks, Doc. For everything.”

The smile dimmed. “Don’t thank me yet, Agent Larabee. Buck’s got a long way to go before he’s well again. Dr. Royal from Orthopedics will be up to look at his leg later today, but I suspect he’s in for at least a couple of months of physical therapy after those ribs heal up. And he may always walk with a limp.” He paused. “But as you said to me, he’s a fighter. I have a feeling he won’t be satisfied until he’s 100%.” He pointed to the doors. “You’d better get in there...he was very anxious to see all of you. His throat is really irritated from the tube so try not to let him talk too much yet.”

~+~+~+~

Buck wasn’t talking when Chris stepped into the room. He couldn’t get a chance. The release of tension had hit JD and he was chattering like a magpie. Chris smirked. He shook his head firmly at Ezra, who was showing signs of wanting to climb out of bed--cardiac monitor, IV, and all--to join the group at Buck’s side. Vin patted Buck’s shoulder thankfully before he joined Nathan at Ezra’s bedside.

“Hey, Pard,” Buck grinned at Chris. It was a pale imitation of his usual lady-killer grin, but it was enough. Relief coursed through Chris, leaving exhaustion in its wake. He dropped into the chair. 

“Good to hear your voice again,” he managed to say. ‘I was afraid I’d never hear it again.’

“Why does no one ever say that to me?” came a plaintive voice from the other bed.

“Hell, Ez, you talk even when you’re unconscious,” Nathan joked. 

“Can’t understand you then, either,” Vin added.

“How do you feel?” Chris asked Buck, concerned about the lines of pain crossing his friend’s forehead.

True to form, Buck shrugged it off. “I’m doin’ okay.” He grinned at Chris, then transferred it to JD, who was smiling like a jack-o-lantern. “Glad to get that damn tube out of my throat.”

Chris turned to look at Ezra. “What about you? You feeling better?”

“I will be fine as soon as I am disconnected from these infernal machines and back in my own abode.”

Chris shook his head, an evil smile crossing his features. “Don’t even think about it, Standish,” he said silkily. “I know all about your little legal trick with Dr. Baker. I hope you realize it won’t work this time.”

Nathan had been filled in on the details of Ezra’s escape from Lakewood-St. David’s as well. “Yeah. You try that ‘competency’ bit with us around and we’ll just tie you to the bed.”

Ezra snorted and looked at Vin for support, then Buck. Vin just shook his head and Buck actually laughed--a dry, painful sound. Chris winced and reached for the cup of ice chips next to the bed. He offered a spoonful to Buck, who took it greedily.

“So Buck...how did you know that Bolo Orlowski set the bomb?” JD asked excitedly, completely ignoring the glares shot at him by his teammates.

Buck’s happy expression changed, darkened. He swallowed and coughed. Chris stood up anxiously and Nathan started over, but Buck waved his hand. After several seconds of breathing deeply from the oxygen tube in his nose, he looked back at JD. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, kid. Bolo Orlowski set that bomb? Hell, he was one of the big name bombers. Cost a mint to hire him. Kinda doubt I’d be worth that much to Hoyt...or anyone else.”

Dead silence.

“You said his name,” Chris said quietly.

“Actually, you spelled his name,” Ezra clarified. 

“You remember anything?” Vin asked.

Buck leaned back against the pillows. He looked tired and the lines of pain on his face deepened. “Not much...”

“But--“ Ezra started, trying to sit up again.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Nathan took charge. “Buck needs to rest. And you,” pointing at Ezra, “need to stay still. That drug is still in your system, and your heart got a powerful workout last night. You need to rest too.”

Chris was staring at Buck with narrowed eyes. Buck met the glare. “Hell, Chris...you look like shit.”

“What an excellent observation, Mr. Wilmington.”

“Shut up, Ezra.”

“Think that’s your cue to go home and get some sleep, Cowboy.” Vin put his hand on Chris’ shoulder.

Chris continued to look at Buck. _‘You’re lying, Buck. I know it, and you know I know it. But why?’_

 

Part 26

Saturday morning:

Chris sleepily blinked his eyes and looked around the room. His room. 

"Shit!" Chris sat up fast, flinging the blanket back before memory caught up with him and he sagged back against the pillows in relief. He glanced at the bedside clock and groaned. After ten. He'd slept for fifteen hours straight. _'Never meant to be gone from the hospital this long,'_ he reprimanded himself. There was no denying, though, that he'd needed the rest and that he felt better for it. He vaguely remembered Vin driving him home in Ezra's Jag. Chris had stumbled into bed, not even bothering to take off his clothes. He'd slept deeply, without any dreams.

He rubbed his hand along his chin, feeling two day's worth of stubble. Definitely time for a shower and a shave. 

Chris padded barefoot into the kitchen, hair still damp from his shower. He set about making coffee, and--feeling lightheaded from hunger--rummaged through the refrigerator for breakfast. There were eggs, cheese, some onions and a bell pepper. Just what was needed for an omelet. Chris pulled Sarah's omelet pan from the cupboard and put it on the stove. Then he carried the onion and pepper to the sink and put them on the chopping block. He reached for a knife.

And froze.

 

_Pressing the knife more and more tightly against Buck's neck until the flesh parted and the blood trickled over the blade_

 

Chris pulled the knife free of the marble block. Funny how he knew exactly which one he'd used that day. Which one he'd used to cut his partner.

His friend.

The handle of the knife clenched in his hand, he walked to the back door, fumbled with the lock and the chain, then flung the door open. Cool, fresh morning air, heavy with the scent of approaching rain, rushed to greet him. He walked through the dew-soaked grass--not even noticing the cold on his bare feet--circled around the barn and up a shallow rise overlooking the pond.

He drew back his arm and flung the knife away from him with all of his strength.

He was on his way back to the house before the knife hit the water.

~+~+~+~

Vin stepped into the ICU room and stopped dead in surprise. With the exception of Buck--who appeared to be asleep--the room was empty. Not only were Ezra, JD and Nathan--all of whom were supposed to be here--missing, so was Ezra's bed.

"It's okay," Buck said faintly. Vin hadn't noticed his eyes open. "They took Ez down for some tests...and Nate and JD went to the cafeteria."

Vin let out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. "Couldn't see Ez escapin' with his bed," he said, trying to cover up how concerned he'd been. He held up the vase of flowers the nurse had asked him to bring in. "Where do you want these?"

"Who...from?" 

Vin pulled the card loose and handed it to him, then looked around for some place to put the flowers. There were already three other arrangements and a stuffed teddy bear holding a bright purple Mylar balloon in the room, and there wasn’t any space to spare. Finally, Vin shrugged and put the vase next to the teddy bear on the floor. Then he dropped into the chair by Buck's bed. "So? Who are they from?"

Buck hadn't even opened the envelope. He handed it back to Vin. "Got a bad headache," he murmured. "Can you read it?"

_'He really has to be hurting if he asks me to do it,'_ Vin thought. Although he had worked valiantly for years at overcoming his dyslexia, his teammates tried never to put him in situations that might embarrass him. It was never mentioned but very appreciated. Vin squinted at the flowing, feminine handwriting. "Get well soon, dinner's on me," he read. "Love, Lori." He frowned. "Who's Lori? Oh, that secretary on the fifth floor?"

"Nah, that's Marla." Buck pointed to the teddy bear. "That's from Marla. Lori is the...blonde...in Communications."

"I don't remember a blonde in Communications. There's that redhead--"

"Melinda. She sent the yellow roses."

Vin couldn't help it; he laughed. "That ol' animal maggotism at work again, huh, Bucklin?"

Buck smiled--no doubt remembering his efforts to explain his "animal magnetism" to JD--and his roommate's stubborn refusal to call it anything but "maggotism". The smile quickly faded and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"You’re hurtin’ purty bad.” It wasn’t a question. “They give you anything?" 

"Yeah. Just 'fore you came in...guess it hasn't kicked in yet." Buck breathed deeply and then winced. "Damn. Keep forgettin' the ribs."

Vin felt helpless. He got up and retrieved a washcloth, dampened it in cold water and returned to run it over Buck's sweaty face. "Thanks," the mustached agent murmured.

"No problem."

Buck opened his eyes with difficulty. "Vin...thanks for goin' with JD today. It's...gonna be rough on the kid...seein' the loft like that."

"Yeah, but there's nothin' broken that can't be fixed." Vin squeezed his shoulder. "Includin' you."

"Yeah." Buck shifted uneasily in the bed. "Humpty Dumpty, that's me." He made eye contact with Vin. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"In that...desk, in the living room. By the door?" Vin nodded, knowing the piece of furniture he was referring to. "The bottom file drawer--on the right. There's some files in there...insurance and the mortgage papers, bank stuff...important papers. Can you...bring them here?"

Vin frowned. "I'll get 'em, but why don't I just take them over to Chris' place? Or hold on to them myself? You don't need to be messin' around with all that right now."

"Gotta deal...with the insurance. Sooner the claim gets...settled, the sooner they can get started fixin' the mess."

"Okay," Vin conceded reluctantly.

"Something else..."

"Yeah?"

"The bottom of that drawer...false bottom." Sweat was beading on Buck's forehead and Vin took the washcloth and sponged it away. "Push down on the back corners. It comes up...there's a file there...accordion file..." his voice was strained.

"I'll bring it," Vin said quickly. "You just rest now."

Buck nodded, then tightened his grip on Vin's hand. "Don't tell...anyone 'bout it. Not JD. And...especially not Chris."

~+~+~+~

Chris saw Ezra’s doctor as he was coming into the ICU. Dr. Howard closed the chart he was writing in and greeted Chris with the words “I think he’s out of danger.”

“You think?” Chris raised his eyebrows.

“Well, all the tests we’ve run have come back normal. And his heartbeat has stayed steady for eight hours now. But, since it was an experimental drug, I’m going to err on the side of caution. I’ve dismissed him from ICU but I want to keep him in the hospital at least one more night.” He grinned. “He wasn’t very pleased about that when I told him, but Agent Jackson assured me he would stay.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “He’ll stay,” he confirmed. “He won’t like it much, but he’ll stay.”

“Do I even want to know how you’ll manage that?” the doctor kidded.

“Probably not.” 

 

Buck opened his eyes as Chris came into the room. “Hey, Pard,” he greeted him. “You look better.”

“Wish I could say the same about you.” Chris sat down in the chair by the bed and studied his friend. 

“Hell...Chris, you know it’s plumb impossible for me to look bad.”

“Really,” Chris said sarcastically. “Heard you lost your bunkmate.”

“Ez? Oh yeah. And did he rub it in.” Buck managed a smile. “JD and Vin went to look at the loft--see what they could salvage of JD’s stuff.”

Chris hadn’t gone by the apartment. He didn’t want to see it--his imagination was bad enough. But he had read the reports. “JD’s room didn’t have much damage at all. Your room, though...”

Buck nodded. “I know.” He sighed. “Guess I should count my blessings it wasn’t worse. All my important papers were downstairs in the desk. But...I keep thinking about things...stuff that was upstairs. My mom’s photo album. And her gold locket was in a box in the dresser. And all the pictures of...” he stopped.

Chris knew what he was thinking about. “All the pictures you had of Sarah and Adam,” he said evenly. At one time, Buck had framed every photo of his godson; everything Adam had made him--from his crayoned scribbles to a candle made out of old newspaper and Fruit Loops--had been on proud display in Buck’s home. Afterwards, though, the things had disappeared. It had been months, maybe years before Chris had wondered why. Then it dawned on him: Buck had done it for his sake--trying to protect him from the memories. When Chris had spent the night--and during the dark times there had been plenty of nights when Buck had scraped him up from whatever bar he was haunting and taken him home--he’d stayed in the smaller bedroom downstairs, the one that was now JD’s room. 

Now Chris gripped Buck’s hand tightly. “You don’t know what they’ll find when they start cleaning the place up.”

“I know.” Buck stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t making any effort to cover his feelings, which told Chris just how tired and depressed he was. He was in pain too; Chris could tell by the tight lines around his mouth and the shallow way he was breathing.

“Feel so bad for JD, y’know?” Buck said quietly. “I mean...it was his home. Mine, too.” The last was barely a whisper.

Chris remembered when Buck had bought the place. “It’s my first real home,” he’d commented. 

“It’ll be home, again,” Chris said firmly. “Besides, Buck...as long as I have a home, you have one. Don’t you know that?”

Dark blue eyes came up to focus on his. “Thanks, Pard,” Buck said softly.

Chris cleared his throat and broke the gaze. “When you get out of here, we’ll go through my pictures. Time I sorted through them anyway. Bet I’ve got copies of most of the ones you lost. Of Sarah and Adam, anyway.” He smiled. “I even have our old Academy pictures in a box in the spare room.”

Buck snorted, then grabbed his ribcage. “Ow. God, Chris, I’m not sure I want to have copies of some of those. Remember that blue leisure suit I had? Ezra or JD ever see that picture, and they’ll never let me hear the end of it.” His voice was weakening. Chris squeezed his hand. 

“You need to get some sleep. Need anything for the pain?”

Buck shook his head. “Not yet. It makes me so...groggy.”

“You’ve been taking it, haven’t you?” Sharpness edged Chris’ words.

Buck sighed. “Yeah. When they give it to me. I just...don’t like to ask for it more than I have to.”

“Damn it, Buck...” Chris cut himself off. He wasn’t going to argue with Buck about this--it wouldn’t do any good. He’d just mention to the doctor that Buck probably wasn’t the best informant as to his own pain threshold.

“You want some water?” he asked instead. Buck nodded. Chris stood up to get the cup and as he did, he saw again the fine white scar on Buck’s throat. He took a deep breath. “Buck. Somethin’ I need to talk to you about.”

Buck looked at him, worried. “What is it?”

Chris gently touched his neck with one finger. “This.”

~+~+~+~

The closer they got to the apartment, the less sure JD was he really wanted to see it. But he didn't say anything--well, that wasn't exactly true--he'd been chattering nervously ever since they left the hospital parking lot in Vin's old Jeep. But as they exited the freeway and turned onto the street, he fell silent, unconsciously gripping his hands tightly together.

Vin glanced over at him. "We don't have to do this." His voice was understanding.

JD shook his head. "No. I do. I need to get some clothes and stuff and...and I need to see it. I need..."

Vin pulled the Jeep to the curb. "Look up."

JD hesitated, then looked out his window. He gasped, feeling a sick churning in his stomach at the sight of the huge, gaping hole right where Buck's bedroom should be, and at the sheets of plywood covering what used to be the living room windows. His eyes sought the smaller windows in his bedroom, noticing that only one of them was broken. Then his attention was drawn back to that gaping hole in the brick: mute evidence of the force of the blast.

"JD."

He didn't look at Vin. "What?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Vin turned him around so he could see his face. "You remember, no matter how bad it looks...it could have been so much worse. Nobody was killed, JD. Not the neighbors, not me. And not Buck."

"But he could--"

"He wasn't." Vin's voice was firm. "Buck's goin' to be okay, boy. It might take awhile, but he'll be good as new...and you _will_ get your home back."

JD took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "You're right." He opened the door. "Let's do this."

~+~+~+~

Chris couldn't stay still; he had to move, to try to expel some of this fury building inside. "Why the hell didn't you ever tell me?" he demanded.

"Wasn't nothin' to tell." Buck's voice was very quiet. "It was an accident."

"An accident!" Chris exploded. "Damn it Buck, I cut your throat with a fucking knife! How could that be an accident?"

"Chris...I don't know what all you remember..."

"I remember cutting your throat! What more should I remember?"

Buck sighed, shifted in the bed, and bit back a curse as every part of his throbbing body protested the movement. When he could talk again, he said, "You didn't know what you were doin’." His fists clenched tightly as he fought the pain. "And you didn't really--"

The door flew open and Nathan stalked in. "Chris! I'm glad you're here. We've got a problem with Ezra. That stubborn southern know-it-all SOB is trying to discharge himself AMA, again!"

"That idiot!" Chris swore. He grinned his icy, feral grin. "Guess he didn't believe me when I told him what would happen if he tried that. Got your handcuffs, Nathan?" He started out the door, then whirled and looked back at Buck. "This isn't over, understand?" 

Buck waited until the door had closed behind them both before he said aloud "No, Chris. It's not over. Hell, it'll never be over."

 

Epilogue

Epilogue 1  
Monday afternoon

"Good God, Monica. You're supposed to be the brainy one! To use your own drug to poison the man..."

"It should have been foolproof," Monica Hastings protested. "What are the odds that the physician treating him once worked in my lab!"

"You'd never make a gambler, Cuz," David Wyerly retorted. "Because, obviously, the odds were pretty good. Or bad, as it turned out."

Monica paced around her uncle's tastefully-decorated library. "This is not good." She was more animated--and agitated--than either of her cousins had ever seen her. "I had FDA inspectors and those auditors in the lab all weekend. And what if those ATF people start looking into my background? If they find out I'm related to Uncle Arthur..."

"Stop worrying," Nina counseled. "There is no reason for them to look into your background. We gave them a suspect. As far as the Feds are concerned, Kevin Murine stole the T-27 and poisoned Standish, acting on orders from Marcus Hoyt. Riverside Pharmaceuticals will probably get a slap on the wrist from the FDA for lax security, but that won't amount to anything. We covered your tracks." She paused. "And by the way, good acting job when the Feds were there. Those fake tears even impressed me."

"She has a point, though," David mused. "It wouldn't take much to link her to Uncle Arthur. Or Steven. Hell, Riverside was started with Uncle's money."

Nina raised her eyebrows. "So? She's related to Arthur Curran. She can hardly help that. No one is convicted of a crime just because of whom they happen to be related to. Monica is lily-white...at least to the uneducated eye."

"But what if they find Murine?" Monica finally sat down in one of the soft velvet wing chairs in front of the fireplace.

"They won't," David grinned. "And if by some miracle they ever do, they'll be lucky if they can identify him."

Monica dropped her hands in her lap and stared at him. "You didn't kill him?"

"Well, shit, Monica, of course I killed him. What did you expect me to do with him?" David shook his head.

"I thought we were going to pay him off--"

"That's enough," Nina broke in. "Monica, I don't think you--or I--really need to know any more about what David did. Just suffice to say he adequately covered your tracks." She leaned forward in her chair. "Next time there won't have to be a cover-up. We'll anticipate problems and plan accordingly."

"Not if Monica is around," David muttered. "Of all the stupid--"

"That's enough!" His sister's voice snapped like a whip. "You and I are just as much to blame for this contretemps as Monica is. We sent her out there on her own. We all need to get it into our heads that we aren't competitors in Uncle's little 'game'--we're allies. A team. It's not as if the one who kills Standish scoops the pot--we all share equally. The risks as well as the benefits." She regarded them both through cool green eyes. "Make no mistake--if one of us falls, we will all go down. And Uncle's entire enterprise will go down with us."

There was silence in the room except for the crackling of the fire.

Finally, Monica spoke. "So, what's our next move?"

Nina smiled. "I have a few ideas. Monica--you work too hard, dear. You need a social life. A dating life."

Monica had regained some of her self-possession. She lifted her eyebrows and tilted her head on the side. "Surely you're not going to suggest I make a play for Ezra Standish, Nina. That's so...cliche."

"Well, it's better than _me_ making a play for him," David grinned.

Nina shook her head as she regarded the other two fondly. "Ordinary minds. That's what's wrong with the two of you. Monica, I couldn't help but notice that one of the two ATF gentlemen who visited us appeared somewhat taken by you. Especially," she added, her tone changing from honey-sweet to waspish, "when you started crying those fake tears. I think you and Mr. Tanner would make _quite_ the lovely couple."

 

Epilogue 2  
Tuesday morning

Sarah Bryant wrestled her car into a parking space on a side street. Needing money--her uncle's accounts were all frozen as Federal auditors worked their way through his business dealings--she'd sold her sports car and bought a ten year old Ford. Perfectly acceptable form of transportation, even if the stubborn steering did make her arms ache.

She glanced at herself in the rear-view mirror, finger-combing a few strands of her newly short, newly blonde hair. Bad luck that that picture of her with her uncle had appeared in the paper, but she was satisfied she'd changed her appearance enough. Uncle had always insisted she keep fake ID just in case. This would be the first time she’d ever had to use it.

She was early for her appointment but that was all right. She had deliberately parked a few blocks away. She wanted to walk by the Federal Building.

She slowed her pace as she approached it. She'd read in a magazine that since the Oklahoma City bombing, there was heightened security around federal office buildings. If so, there wasn't much sign of it here. She looked through the doors. A bored security guard was checking ID before allowing people on the elevators. She made herself keep moving before anyone noticed her. She couldn't resist, though, taking one last look over her shoulder at the tall building. 

The ATF offices, she'd learned, were on the fourth, seventh and eighth floors.

She continued down the street, around the corner. Here were small shops, restaurants. A bar called "The Saloon" was across the street from her destination. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door of Hansen's Art Gallery.

"Hi," she said to the college-age girl that came bustling over to her. "I have a ten o'clock appointment with Ms. Hansen?"

"Can I tell her your name?"

"Christina Barrows," Sarah said, smoothly trying out her new name. She smiled. "I'm here about the job."

 

Epilogue 3  
University Medical Center Room 2206  
Tuesday night

Buck shifted in his bed, relieving one group of pains as another set to complaining.

He glanced around the room he'd been moved into earlier that day. The room that would be his "home" for the next few weeks at least. At least it was larger and lighter than that ICU cubicle and had a window looking over the street. Well, Vin said it overlooked the street. Chris had cackled it had enough floor space to house Buck's rapidly growing collection of flowers, plants, and stuffed animals--more of which arrived daily.

He glanced over at the cot in the corner. Vin slumbered peacefully, his back to Buck. It had taken Vin, Nathan and Josiah all teaming with Buck to get Chris and JD both to leave and get a decent night's sleep at the ranch. Ezra had actually offered to spend the night in Buck's room--which was kind of ironic when you thought about how he'd fought staying in the hospital when he was the patient. Nathan had nixed that idea and sent Ezra home with Josiah, who still felt guilty because they'd been unable to reach him in Mexico. Nobody had listened to Buck saying he didn't need anybody to stay, and so Vin ended up occupying the cot.

Satisfied Vin was truly asleep, Buck reached over with his good arm and pulled the accordion folder from the bedside table. True to his word, Vin had smuggled it in with no one being the wiser. Tanner hadn't asked what it contained although it was obvious he was curious. Buck wasn't worried. Vin was an intensely private person, he wouldn't violate Buck's privacy either because of his curiosity, or in the guise of it being for Buck's own good.

He steeled himself for what was to come and opened the folder.

Every section was tightly packed full of file folders, manila envelopes, cassette tapes, photographs. With clumsy fingers he sorted through until he found the folder he was looking for. Held together with a rubber band, it was crammed full of newspaper articles, faxes, and more photographs. The label on the folder read simply "Bolo".

It was written in smudgy blue. Buck smiled a little, remembering the night he labeled the folder and couldn't find a pen anywhere that had ink, so he'd ended up using an eyeliner pencil a date had left in the bathroom. 

He looked at the photographs. They were pictures of detonators, or pieces of detonators, all with a common factor. Red, black and yellow wire to the fuse, the strands twisted around each other into a loop. "Bolo's signature" Cap'n Nate had called it.

The same "signature" he'd seen the instant before his bedroom blew up around him.

The same as he'd seen years before...

Shooting another glance at Vin, who had turned over so he was facing Buck but still seemed to be asleep, Buck pulled the top layer of files out. These were all labeled the same. "Larabee, Sarah. Larabee, Adam." Then followed the word Buck had longed to erase for almost ten years. 

_"Open."_

He opened one of the files. He knew these files so well. So many nights he poured over them, desperately looking for a clue, something he'd missed.

He pulled out a glossy photograph. A close-up, of the detonator that had been rigged to Chris' truck that fatal night. The detonator that had miraculously survived the explosion and had been found the next day by an exhausted Buck Wilmington, who couldn't make himself leave the scene.

Red, black and yellow wire. Twisted around each other into a loop.

Bolo's signature.

Buck closed the file. He leaned back into the pillows. God, he was tired. And he hurt.

Hurt like hell.

But he was alive. Sarah and Adam weren't. 

Because he'd wanted to stop for dinner that night, they'd died.

He reached up to touch the scar on his neck. Chris kept trying to talk about it, he kept changing the subject. No reason to talk. Chris might have been out of his mind that day, but a scar on the neck was nothing compared to the scars on Chris' soul.

On Buck's too.

He whispered it, again. "This will never be over."

 

Across the room, Vin Tanner watched his friend through wide-awake blue eyes.

 

_To be continued in Trinity Book 2: Flames_


End file.
